My builder, William Knox, once declared, “A small idea can only become a great tradition if it is seen forth.” His visionary seeds bloomed over the smoke of opium pipes and eventually formed the Knox’s cornerstone. Year after year, we perform the same ceremonial initiation rituals.
I relish in routine.
Of course, the meal has changed over the centuries, as well as the preparation (the food poisoning outbreak of a’72 tartar isstilltalked about; it was the only time the initiation was delayed by a good week to allow members to recover). But suffice it to say, the food is always tip-top, what the Queen of England or the King of Saudi Arabia might have at a grand feast. This year, we are having a 2000 vintage côte de boeuf flown in from France—and accompanied, as always, by the butcher. The wine is, as tradition dictates, procured from the same small Long Island family-operated vineyard and aged for more than fifty years. (Itstillrubs members the wrong way that we use a wine from New York, though tensions have remarkably eased since the Curse of the Bambino was broken.)
Speaking of tradition, this year we willfinallyreturn to the usage of opium for all members to partake, as so desired throughout the initiation process. In my not-so-humble opinion, it’s long overdue. I can still recall the golden days when Graham held opium in high regard. He went so far as to dedicate an entire room to its paraphernalia: opium pipes, containers, and pillows; opium bronze weights exquisitely cast in the shape of every animal known to man.
Then one fateful day, a door was carelessly left ajar, and in wandered a curious seven-year-old Oliver. He mistook the items for toys: He played the pipes like flutes, tasted the “magical dust” residue in the containers…Rose rescued him in the nick of time. It was hardly the first overdose here by any stretch of the imagination, but it was the first involving a child.
Graham was consumed with guilt (such a perplexing human emotion, really), and he subsequently banned opium from the Knox, except as required for geomantic divination readings.
But Oliver is of age now, and he is reintroducing opium to be freely consumed, as our founders intended. I do not concur with everything that boy believes, but on this point I am entirely in agreement.
At long last, we will be fully honoring the society’s founding roots and practices.
The help is taking great pains to properly prepare for initiation ceremonies: closing drapes to protect privacy, running reliable electricity to the freezer, sealing windows shut. Even the most minor temperature alterations can change the pH balance of such fine delicacies.
And even the slightest peek from prying eyes could jeopardize the sanctity of our traditions. I do worry about that little problem we currently have on our hands, but I trust those involved know what they are doing.
Vivian
February
When Vivian exits Canton’s Restaurant, she glances down the hall, toward the bathroom Peter directed her to—she wasn’t lying about needing to use it—but in the opposite direction is the staircase leading to the downstairs mailbox and Xavier’s note. And then, smack-dab in front of her, is a secretary she somehow missed earlier.
How much time does she have before Peter grows suspicious over her absence?
Vivian takes a deep breath and rushes down the stairs, her hand skimming the railing like a sled on a slope. Her heart ticks loudly in her ears. There’s no one in the nearby vicinity, but distant voices circulate around her, and she knows it’s only a matter of time before someone comes. Stealing over to the mailbox in the foyer, she runs her fingers across the worn numbered slots until she finds it: number 34. A small, unsealed envelope is tucked inside. She pulls out the slip of paper as the surrounding voices get louder. People are heading her way.
V,
Send my love to Rachel and Claudius. Can’t wait for the common play. We’ll raise a toast and clink our dirty martinis with extra olives.
—X
P.S. Remember when I told you and Rachel about the pigeons on my building? I wish I’d known that was going to happen.
What on earth? Vivian has never met a Claudius in her life. What the heck is the “common play”? What pigeons? And why would Xavier mention alcohol? Vivian almost feels like she’s getting pranked. Is this really from him, and is she the intended recipient? She double-checks the mail slot. Yes, number 34. And this is Xavier’s handwriting, the letters angled up and to the right, like they’re trying to have good posture.
He’s clearly relapsed and is off his rocker. Annoyed, Vivian slips the note into her pocket and quickly climbs the stairs. She doesn’t have the time or patience for shenanigans. She passes a few people from the restaurant milling about in the upstairs hall, cocktails in hand. Dinner has finished for them. Has she taken too long? She does still need the bathroom and should discard this absurd note before anyone else finds it.
But she can’t resist the opportunity to rummage through the secretary. It’s right there, on her left, pulling her like a magnet. Mahogany, slant top, and nineteenth century, so fitting with Margaret’s era. While she waits for the hall to clear, she pretends to check her phone—silly, really, since there’s no service in the Knox—and, spur of the moment, composes a draft of a text to Rachel.
Rachel, I have a strange question. Do you happen to remember a story X might have told us about pigeons on the roof of his building?
She toggles off her phone’s Wi-Fi, wondering if that might enable her to use cellular data. No such luck.
The crowd finally disperses; now’s her chance. Vivian quickly turns the small brass key already inserted in the secretary lid to pull it down. The inner contents are standard: a base of curved drawers beneath pigeonholes, a small middle compartment with a door flanked by two skinny columns. If there is a secret compartment, it’s somewhere in this middle portion or its adjacent columns. She pulls out the dovetail drawer to the left of the spindle and runs her finger against the wood.Yes!There’s a tiny circular notch inside, a spring that will release the column. She just needs the corresponding pin to free the latch. Excitement drums in her as she pulls open and closes the drawers, searching for it.
But the drawers are empty. No pin.
Damn it!
What to do? She tries the drawers again, in case there’s a ballpoint pen rolling around whose fine tip might work, but no such luck.
Suddenly, Vivian gets an idea. She runs her fingers through her tresses, removing her hairpin. Thank goodness she wore this tonight. It’s her mother’s—a gold-and-diamond hairpin—which feels fitting. She inserts its pointy end into the small hole, and there’s an utterly satisfying click as the spring is released. The “column” pops forward: It’s a wooden document holder. A tingle runs through her.
But the holder is hollow, empty. Sort of like how she feels right about now. She crouches disappointedly over the secretary, pushing the column back into place, when a familiar voice rings out: “Ms.Lawrence, can I help you with something?”
