The Mercury Waltz (22 page)

—as in Haden’s heart the pain flares and gutters, as if to look into that heart would be to see some tiny creature fleeing for its life: past the shouters, past the newspaper district and the dark hulk of St. Mary of Dolors, crossing Rottermond Square where some lean duffer moves through shade and shadow, hat pulled low, a hitch in his gait as if from weary age but “Uncle,” says Haden, “you’ll need to do better than that,” to bring Istvan’s wink from below the battered brim: “Sharp eyes. I’ll buy you a drink,” steering him into the daytime-dull Heads or Tails, where of the four living bodies inside, all known to Istvan, none show him any recognition, one red-bearded worthy in fact aims an aimless kick his way as “Brandy,” Istvan taking two though Haden sets his aside, to instead take out his knife and score its point on the tabletop, a thin groove, over and over again.

Istvan sips the drink, glad to be free of the heat backstage, the tempest brewing; it has been a very long afternoon, and Mouse’s mood, more silent than silence, has only made it longer –

Stop pacing, you make me weary. Whatever’s amiss?

What the fuck should be amiss? The show’s tonight, isn’t it? But if I’d had the time I needed, and not had my hand forced—

And when did you think to finish? In time to call it
The Old Snow-Man
? You ought to thank me, really—

—so it looks fair to be a very long night, this singular premiere; he sips again. Considering Haden before him: “A bit apache, all those bruises, but it rather suits. And you’ve been a busy man, one hears, cleaning house and such, brooming the streets with your young mecs.” Haden shrugs, says nothing. “Have you by chance found the
bébé?
”

With a frown, “No.”

“No?” with his own frown. “Well. And how is the angel?”

“He’s getting married.”

“Married?” seeing now why the battered kit is so in hell, so relentless to drive his little cattle before him, harrowed so harrowing. “To whom, if I may ask?”

“To whomever the fuck he pleases, I don’t care. Her name’s Marie.—No, I don’t want that,” pushing back at the brandy Istvan pushes toward him, pushes again so he drinks it, suddenly, drains it as if he is dying of thirst, and “Once,” Istvan says, as if telling a pleasant tale, “two fellows set upon me in the sunset, in a little shithole town; they meant to take my head. See?” pulling aside his tieless collar, his shirt to show the scars, those twisted, pinkish ropes. “A friend of mine, a whore, sewed it shut for me, while I tried not to bleed to death; she was much better a whore than a seamstress.” Haden looks at the scars, looks into Istvan’s face—half smiling, inscrutable—and then away, down at the knife on the table before him. “It was a kind of tithe I paid, for Mouse—for M. Bok, that is. To have him, yeah?” as that strange yellow gaze turns up again to his. “You’ll bleed, too, kit, before you’re done.”

“What’s there to do?” so low Istvan must lean forward to hear him. “He has his course, I have mine.”

“Come to the show tonight.”

Lower still, “I’m done with the theatre, uncle.”

“You once said I needed you to make my play—may be I do,” with his stare beneath the brim so lawless and so bright that Haden feels its spark like raw quicksilver; his teeth find and clamp his scar; and they sit so for a very long moment, or perhaps it is not very long at all, how long does it take for one fierce fox to sniff and know another, for two jacks of the same deck to make a perfect pair?

So when Istvan finally croaks “Help an old feller home?” Haden puts out a hand as if in rôle resumed, as if they have done such a dozen, a hundred times before, in a hundred lifetimes half remembered as a fable or a dream. As they pass the redbeard near the door, that man cries out as a sharp heel strikes him—“What in bleeding hell!”—but “You kicked my uncle,” says Haden, as Istvan aims his own boot, the same spot and as hard, the man shoving upright from his chair—but confronted by the two of them, one smiling, one not, he sinks back down, rubbing at his swelling shin as they exit together, age and youth and ageless cunning, past the silent alleys and the clattering broadsheet printer, to mount the steps of the Mercury and disappear inside as one.

The crowd’s assembly began just after sunset, a lurid wash of ochre in the blue velvet sky. Now, as the lights recede, the house is full, restive, active, alive as if it is itself a kind of beast, the eager half-whelp of the Opera, as some of that audience are present as well: Edgar Rue and Simon Cowtan, though not together, and the most adventurous of the bourgeoisie, the ankh-wearing matron now sporting both a veil and a delicious sense of transgression as she seats herself between a raucous host of Virgos and a pair of bearded dandies, themselves eyeing a knot of noisy young men without their girls this night, for this show, though its title is tame, may well devolve into a brawl or something worse.

In the heart of the stifling rows sits another Opera attendee, Frédéric Blum with collar up and hat pulled down his brow. Expressly forbidden by Herr Hebert to review or even attend this performance, gone like a thief from the
Solon
’s office to step into the gloom of the church, the curate halting him in its aisle—

Herr Blum, I hear that you’ve left our choir? Your voice will surely be missed.

I’m to be married.

Why, that’s fine news,
though it palpably was not, Frédéric staring past him to the flickering altar, to ask abruptly, as if of the Christ in His marble silence,
What is sin?

Sin is the sad gift of the father of lies.

In
Hamlet,
Polonius says, “This above all: to thine own self be true
.
”

In
Faustus
, Faustus says, “O I’ll leap up to my God: Who pulls me down?” Have you ever seen that play, Herr Blum? It was the doctor who fled from God, not God from the doctor. Sometimes such a story tells a very great truth—

—as Tilde in raveling ribbon snood, wool dress altered to ride above her swelling belly, yet still so tight that she can hardly get her breath, keeps her doorside place with Haden beside her, Haden there past Rupert’s narrowed stare:
The spy? Why?
to Istvan who nodded soothingly—
Tonight we need more muscle than just Mab
—handing Haden a too-large coat of dusty black, Rupert’s coat, to replace his own ferocious yellow plaid. Haden’s boys are stationed outside, beyond and between the constables,
Eyes open till I need you
; Haden himself now watching as the audience settles, as the curtains part at last on a noise like wind, a rustling and a whispering, Istvan’s whispering to begin Rupert’s tale, on the mountain of white wood and silver-gilt. It is strange to see such space in a place so small, for the eye marks the “mountain’s” true height, but to the mind it is truly a mountain, as the stage is a window into another full world—

—while the street door opens one last time, to admit, alone and ticketless, a very handsome man in dark gray stripes, whose stare quells even Tilde to silence, who steps past Haden without seeing—though Haden marks him at once as the man de Metz—to take his stance behind the seats at the very back of the house, just as the Snow Youth is revealed: slim wooden arms and black wool-and-horsehair wig shaped and lightly curled, gray-flecked eyes that in the light look so alive that the watchers catch their breath as one. A pair of women third row center sigh with audible longing, there is a rising scatter of applause—

—that leaps to instant rapture at the entrance of Mr. Castor and Mr. Pollux, the audience thundering for their heroes, their champions, themselves. Shouts of “Cry the Mercury!” and stamping feet can be heard all the way into the street by those who are paid to stand listening; the puppets do not move, as if they are human actors graciously acknowledging the accolades. Finally the applause subsides as the watchers, whetted, wait to see what their chosen ones will do next: scale the mountain and heap down scorn on society? Play some exciting, unforeseen trick? Whatever it is, they are ready to approve, and—especially the young men—emulate it as soon as possible, ideally before an appreciative audience of their own.

Now “The air here is very thin,” says Mr. Castor, not the knight this time but only the traveler, to Mr. Pollux, nodding, similarly arrayed. They begin the steep climb together, but Mr. Pollux lags behind, dawdling and seemingly distracted, intent upon his own vistas, so that it is on his own that Mr. Castor comes upon the Snow Youth forlorn and exquisite, still as a statue, incomplete and made to be so: Mr. Castor is visibly startled when the Snow Youth looks his way.

“Who are you?” asks Mr. Castor; the Snow Youth does not answer. “Are you not very cold?” and the Youth blinks, and slowly smiles, causing more sighs—he is perhaps the most beautiful thing Istvan has ever created—as the sound of the wind rises through the little bare-branched, pressed-paper trees, while snow, a glitter made of many snips of silver foil, Tilde’s daylong, patient scissor-work, begins to swirl and fall. Rupert, deeply hooded in white, tries his best to see, hopes his spectacles do not shine, hopes to reach without incident the end of this show that has been so like a dream in its making, effortless, mysterious, frustrating; not all dreams ought be told aloud, and now is the worst time, may be, to try to tell it. And yet—

“It is a very lonely place, here,” continues Mr. Castor. “And there are fierce kobolds in these mountains, or so they say.” The Youth smiles still, as down below, Mr. Pollux gazes up with increasing alarm, throws a stone, throws a handful of snow, works to catch the attention of his friend, to no avail; Mr. Castor is unmoving, as if bewitched; finally Mr. Pollux retreats, or seems to. “Are you not afraid, young man, to stay up here all alone?”

In answer, the Youth moves what he can—his hand, his eyes—inviting Mr. Castor to sit beside him in the silent sparkle, as a soft whistle sounds from elsewhere, Istvan’s sweetest whistle, a tune very simple and sad: like an orphan’s cradle song or the snow’s own voice, the cold that one seems to feel by watching, though in reality it is so hot sweat beads and linen sticks like a second skin. Haden props the street door in vain to let in what air there might be, trying to keep one eye on that lord de Metz—

—on Benjamin, slipped out from the de Vries’ townhouse as neatly as he used to, off to the Calf on those nights Belle would bewail, to drink and to whore, Christobel tonight like Belle to pester—Would he not care to attend the Mercury show, the premiere that is in all the papers? Would he not like her to accompany him?—come alone as if summoned on this night of all nights to do at last what a youth in love could not: Benjamin who has grasped the real import of this performance, as he grasps with both hands the black aisle railing, the signet ring digging into his skin, heart in joyful, almost disbelieving surge as the puppet Youth whose body is half-human, half of the mountain, is finally, tenderly embraced by Mr. Castor. His eyes fill with tears until they glitter like the snow, the beautiful cold that preserves what it kills, as “Let us,” says Mr. Castor to the Youth, “lie down together,” though they cannot move, “and try our best to keep each other warm.”

The theatre is so quiet one can hear breathing, and restless shifting in the seats; the snow shrouds the puppets’ bodies; the conflation of the worlds is so acute that Istvan, masked and in white, marks that tension as if it were pain, the audience all primed for violence and glamour but caught instead in this suffocating cold, in heartbreak like a mountain crevasse; something will happen. His whistle dwindles, softens, dies, the cue for Tilde to drop a cloth and show the silver plate moon, leaving Haden alone by the door, Haden who glimpses in that light’s reflection a certain form, a body holding itself a certain way—Frédéric? Yes, oh yes—shoulders tight, face pointed at the stage—

—that lies so unnaturally still, the puppets smothered in snow; the silence lengthens. Someone barks a cough, several others hiss back hard for quiet. Mr. Pollux reappears with a key about his neck, a large black key, and starts a sidewise climb—

—as “Melt ’um!” someone calls, a young fellow on the aisle raucous to bring his fellows’ laughter, the hisses drown it out but “Melt ’um,” calling louder, “that’ll do it, that’ll—Ah!” in pained surprise, as Haden’s hand lands on that young fellow’s neck, clamping hard as he snarls softly, “Shut your mouth.”

“Who’ll make me?
Ah!
” in greater pain, “let go!” dragged from his seat to be flung into the street’s darkness to gnash his teeth as he may, kicked in those teeth as he tries to reenter, Haden back to the aisle and the young fellow’s friends risen in umbrage—but Frédéric is there already, white-faced and resolute, coat across his arm as if it might conceal some weapon, so the muttering young fellows push past them both, and depart—

—and on their heels a row of Virgos, one calling back “We came to see politics, not fairytales!” as Istvan behind his mask smiles slight and sour: did they but know, those strident girls, what hard politics this show retells, what life-or-death decisions made on a night where these Misters in another guise played cock-a-hoop to keep all eyes upon them—! They ought, those girls, to have been taking notes…. Now an incantation is meant to be enacted, to, yes, melt the snow and set the captive free, but that may loose more laughter, the audience is distracted and could tip either way. So Istvan in showman’s instinct thinks to distract them further, trusting Mouse to take up his cue as the Youth’s eyes open, gleaming with glycerin, Istvan takes a breath—

—but Rupert, with the same plan, takes a route more direct, the mountain itself shifting in hard creak and sudden tremor, the Youth’s one moveable arm seeming to thrust Mr. Castor free past a quake of painted wood and false snow that buries the Youth himself, torso crooked, eyes still open—

—as someone—Cowtan—lets loose a boo lusty as Stentor, Edgar Rue to his feet shouting back “Why, for shame! For shame, let them play!” that like a cue of another kind leaps in turn from row to row, boos and imprecations both the breath of a breathing animus, men roused for no real reason but the heat of anger and the anger of heat, shoving stiff-armed at one another as the women scramble and screech, someone’s Morocco cane rising to strike, someone else hurling a snuff tin at the stage, another pair yanking until the drapes give way in a heavy tumbling heap. Istvan snatches the puppets up to safety while Rupert, still hooded, vaults from behind the mountain to seize the loudest combatant, Cowtan whose bawls—“Unhand me! Unhand me, you—
puppeteer!
”—peak as he is hauled struggling down the aisle and sent by a punch out the door. Another man in bowler and high dudgeon grabs at Rupert’s white-draped arm—to defend Cowtan? To get in a blow himself?—and is met with a stare as dire as the elbow to his throat that drops him gagging to the curb, in the street clogged with constables and carriages stalled sideways by the brawl, sparking now to men who a moment before had been passing one another peacefully enough on the sidewalk. Avid newspaper bounders charge past frightened citizens and showgoers eager to escape; windows break; drunks howl from the stoop of the Heads or Tails; a carriage horse spooks and bolts, nearly crushing in its flight the knife man and his hysterical dog. Haden’s boys make the most of the melee while keeping an eye out for their master, Haden himself still inside and busy to harry out the tusslers and bag the fainting, veiled matron, snatching her jade necklace almost as an afterthought, as Frédéric shakes a banker’s runner for smashing a brass sconce—“Rude!
Rude,
sir!”—while Tilde, gasping, obstructs a pair of constables on the threshold by doubling up as if she is in
extremis,
shrieking like a Fury “Ow, it hurts, it hurts!”