By larvae of wasp and flock of sheep,
Where golden vine o’er poison creeps,
Six hands four feet make ten,
Among horned lady and horseless men.
I got the third line first. Wasp larvae caused oak galls to form on the trunks of oak trees. These growths were used to make the ink used in many medieval manuscripts. The vellum for a large manuscript often required the slaughter of one or more flocks of sheep or goats. A manuscript gave context to the first line: precious gown and wooden throne. The most expensive color to make was blue, implying this concerned a woman in a blue gown, seated on a wooden throne. I thought immediately of the Virgin Mary, but the second line brought that into question. Mary was a classic archetypal woman, not an evolved one.
The bottom three lines were a test of my memory. Because Mum was contrary, horseless men made me think of the four horsemen of the Apocalypse, and I guessed that it meant there were four men in the image and one woman. “Horned” could relate to a hat or headpiece. I thought of those strange medieval hats that women wore. My memory whirred until I smiled. I had it.
The riddle was describing a manuscript illustration of Christine de Pizan, the first professional female author, fourteenth-century defender of women’s rights, and therefore smasher of archetypes. In the picture, she was seated on a wooden throne, teaching four menwho looked displeased to be at the intellectual mercy of a woman. Only four feet were visible in the image—well, three and a half, if I was to be precise—and the hands of only three of the people had been painted, including Christine’s, which were, as I remembered, elegantly posed over the manuscript. She’d been an intellectual powerhouse, and here she was, both in a manuscript and teaching from one.
Never content putting just one meaning into her riddles when there could be two, this was Mum’s way of saying F**k the patriarchy and show them what you’re made of!
I sent a reply:Love you too x
Diana had asked me to meet her in Green Park and it was gorgeous that morning. Falling copper leaves twisted gently as they fell through the still autumn air, and slivers of mist lingered here and there. Diana sat on a bench, talking on her phone. She hung up as soon as she saw me and rose to kiss me on both cheeks, as if we were society friends, and I had another of those moments where my life didn’t seem like it belonged to me.
We walked toward Buckingham Palace, skirting the tourists gathering outside the gates. Diana kept the conversation light. Was I okay walking? she asked. She loved Green Park; it was one of her favorite places in London, and on a day like this...
She hardly drew breath. I barely knew her, but this seemed unlike her. I sensed that she was anxious, and her nerves were contagious. I began to feel wary.
We turned onto Grosvenor Place and then almost immediately off it into a residential enclave in deepest Belgravia. Diana led me to a row of mews cottages. “Here we are,” she said. The sweet little road was cobbled; window boxes burst with trailing ivy and flowering heathers. The mews cottages were an eclectic mix of styles. Some had basements dug out. They must be worth millions. At the end of the row, a dead end, she stopped.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said. My heart was beating, though.
“Diana, how lovely to see you.” The woman who answered the door looked to be in her forties, with long blond hair, a husky voice, skin that had seen some treatments. She wore wide-legged sweatpants, and a baggy sweatshirt and sheepskin slippers. She was somehow familiar to me, but I couldn’t place her.
She turned to me after they embraced. “This is very special, Anya.” We’re not being formal then, I thought. I was crap at knowing how to talk to rich people, so this whole exchange was a source of anxiety for me. I usually solved it by being overly ingratiating, then castigating myself later for it because that kind of behavior was against my beliefs, the opposite of what Mum had taught me.Nobody is above or beneath you.
She held out both hands. I hesitated, then let her take mine. I hadn’t expected the meeting to happen in a private home, and it threw me.
“I’m Cece. Thank you so much for coming today. We’re thrilled to meet you,” she said, and I said, “It’s nice to meet you,” but my voice sounded tight and my smile felt fake.
Diana had been here before, because she knew to remove her shoes. I took mine off, too, and we followed Cece along a narrow hallway carpeted thickly in cream. The walls were painted white and hung with modern artwork. I saw a Basquiat drawing. “He’s upstairs,” Cece said.
Diana knocked on a door at the top of the stairs. It was slightly ajar.
“Come in.” A man’s voice.
We entered. The room faced the street. Slats on the shutters were tilted, ensuring privacy, filtering the light. Stunning artworks caught my eye: a large de KooningWomanin oil, a Jackson Pollock sketch, works by Miró and Chagall. A Giacometti sculpture stood on a table in the corner of the room, barely there.
A ripple of anticipation ran up my spine. This man wasn’t just acollector of old texts, or of London’s finest real estate, but of modern art, too, of fluid, brave painting that was expressive and imaginative, a little wild, violent, even, in the case of the de Kooning.
It was exciting to think what that might mean for his manuscript collection.
He was approaching me. I clocked his silver hair, the glint of the heavy timepiece on his wrist. He took three rangy strides across the room toward me, quicker than I was expecting.
“Hello,” I started to say but the breath was punched out of me as he wrapped his arms around me. The amber smell of his cologne was pungent. I heard Diana say, “Oh!” and his words, slightly muffled but audible: “Anya, my God, I’ve waited so long for this. Thank you so much.Thank you.”
He loosened his grip on me a little. I put my hand to my cheek. It was wet. Was he crying? Then I really saw him.
“Oh my God,” I said.
I’d seen him online, but never in person. For years, I’d googled him obsessively—his wife, his children, their privileged lives—until I’d forced myself to stop because it was unhealthy and it wasn’t going to change anything and I never wanted Mum to find out what I was doing. This man and his wife hadn’t wanted anything to do with me, until now. I was the baby he had decided wasn’t good enough for him before I was even born.
