ney,” said the defeated-sounding man, “Mr. Vigman didn’t really want to talk. Let’s put it that way.”
“Joffrey, Joffrey.” Elsie and Rachel made eye contact; this had to be the proprietor of the orphanage himself. Desdemona continued, “Please. You must relax. Let me take your coat.” A rustling of noise, a large coat being draped on an obliging hook. “But you mentioned to him the film, yes?”
There was a pause. “Oh, the film,” said Joffrey. “No, I didn’t.”
“But darling, if we are to make this change in life, we must be … we must be … preactive?”
“Proactive, Desdemona,” said Joffrey. “The word is proactive. And I’m being as proactive as I can.”
The voices moved down the hall, forcing the Mehlberg sisters to edge their way along the banister toward the bottom flight of stairs. Elsie, peering between the railing posts, could see the two adults, Desdemona and Joffrey, making their way slowly to a large door at the far end of the hall. Desdemona’s long arm was stretched over Joffrey’s bowed shoulders; he was easily six inches shorter than his companion.
“And what of the visa?” asked Desdemona. “When can we procure?”
“Visa?”
“For Bozhek.”
“Oh, right, Bozhek. The esteemed auteur. Tell me again: Why can’t he get one himself?”
Desdemona’s voice dripped like cherry syrup. “Darling, really. You remember. He make art film and drop a bucket of glow paint on Liberty Statue. It is most beautiful; he is deported. But it is America’s loss; he is great artist. He is Ukrainian Spielverg.”
“Oh. Right.”
“You said you would approach Mr. Vigman about this. He has pull at immigration office.”
“I did, yes. It’s on my list.”
They arrived at the door. Following, Elsie and Rachel found themselves on the bottom step of the staircase. They watched, partly concealed by the banister, as Joffrey fished his hand into his pants pocket and procured a large key chain. Selecting one of the keys, he undid the lock on the door and opened it. Elsie could just make out the room beyond: it was an officelike chamber, lined with ceiling-tall shelves. Strangely, there were few books on these shelves; rather, they were filled with odd-sized jars and receptacles of multicolored liquids and powders. The couple faced each other in the doorway.
“On your list,” repeated Desdemona, clearly unimpressed. “Darling, this is your chance. Put this machine parts thing behind you. Become your dream of childhood: producer of movies. Yes? This is prize to keep eye on, yes?”
“Yes, Desdemona,” said Joffrey.
“Who needs Titan of business? Be Titan of movies!”
“Yes, Desdemona.”
“So you will speak to Mr. Vigman?”
“Yes, I’ll speak to Mr. Vig—Mr. Wigman.”
“And you will procure visa?”
“Yes, I will.”
“Give me kiss, my little kapusta.”
The man did as he was instructed. Desdemona patted him affectionately on the cheek when she pulled away. “Now you have to work to do, yes?”
“Yes. Closer every day.”
Miss Mudrak paused as she turned from her partner. “Did not last tincture work?”
“No, it did not,” said Joffrey. “It didn’t work at all.”
“Oh,” said Desdemona. “A shame. And the specimen?”
“Gone.”