Under the Poppy (11 page)

“A cavalry unit, perhaps?”

The colonel flushes. “You’re forever defending that cesspool, Arrowsmith, who are you shielding really? The puppet-maker? Or that queer, Bok? I know that you’re friendly with Vidor—”

“We are all comrades here,” says Mr. Arrowsmith, unsmiling, “all in hopes of a successful outcome, Jürgen Vidor as much as—”

“Javier,” says the General, with immense courtesy; Mr. Arrowsmith falls silent. The General turns his gaze to the colonel, whose martial stance softens substantially. The room is so quiet one can hear the mantel clock tick, hear the maids passing by in the hall. The silence continues. Finally General Georges asks, “How many of your men were shot, Colonel?”

“Two.”

“How many dead?”

“One.”

“Any civilians?”

“No. But they were not my men, sir, they were hill-men, they—”

“The mercenaries are yours to control as well. Do so. And remember that both Mr. Vidor and Mr. Arrowsmith are essential partners in our efforts, and merit all your courtesy and respect.” There is a knock at the door. “That would be Mr. Vidor now. Admit him, Colonel,” but instead it is the mayor, Redgrave, his attaché quivering in the background, asking for “General Georges, I must see the General. Is he in?” but it is Mr. Arrowsmith who steps into the hallway, the door closing prudently behind as “You motherless idiot,” the General says without emotion to the colonel. “If this was Ghent I’d shoot you myself.”

“I am sorry, sir.”

“I have twenty ready and eager to replace you. I have only one Arrowsmith, one Vidor. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. I am sorry, sir.”

The General looks him up and down as if he were faulty ordnance. “Go to the telegraph, see if my wire’s been returned. Then wait for me in my rooms.”

The colonel’s face is red, he stands, he salutes, he waits for the door to open: on Mr. Arrowsmith only, the hall is empty now. The colonel bows, stepping stiffly aside as “What passes?” the General asks Mr. Arrowsmith, whose shrug is graceful: “Local color. Not to worry. More tea?”

“What did that fool mean, a puppet-maker?”

Mr. Arrowsmith smiles. “Ah, it’s Hanzel. From Brussels.”

“What, our boy with the prick-puppet?” When the General smiles, odd lines spring up about his mouth. “Well! What does he here, in this sorry place?”

“He is performing, I’m pleased to say, at one of the brothels. Very droll, Vidor’s a regular there.” He drinks the last of his tea, sets the cup aside. “Yourself and Vidor, now—that rift’s fully healed? And the man-mountain who attends him mainly superfluous? I assumed that since our last unpleasantness—”

“You mean London? Or Prussia?” The General shrugs. “One can’t hold a grudge forever.”

“And lucre is a marvelous antidote.”

“As long as it flows,” as the door opens again, this time on Jürgen Vidor, smiling and nodding to both men, a soft tube of paper tucked beneath his arm: a map. In the hallway beyond, a heavyset man, a hired bravo, waits with folded hands, as two maids—the brown-haired girl who brought the tea, and, in smock and tented kerchief, Velma—wait together for the door to close, then hurry off, each in her own direction.

There is dirt beneath his nails, dirt on his borrowed finery, the nobleman’s cravat and shirt; he is filthy as any urchin, crouching there in the stables beside the cabriolet, the dented coffin of puppets at his feet. He is stabbing the straw with a little white knife, crying the way a child cries, the silent tears of absolute fury until
What’s all this?
asks a quiet gentleman, walking stick and fragrant cigar, halted mid-stroll by the tableau.
Are you ill, young man?

He wipes his face, it smears the dirt.
No.

The gentleman considers.
Were you recently—upstairs?

No!

Here,
proffering a chased silver flask, fleurs-de-lis and peacocks, a lovely artifact and the brandy inside is even better, it warms the heart, it dries the young man’s tears as he drinks but does nothing for the fury, the gentleman can see that in his eyes, remarkable eyes and
I must not smoke in here,
says the gentleman, indicating the flammable straw, the restive horses.
Will you walk with me, outside?

I don’t suck,
says
the young man coldly.

I do,
says the gentleman pleasantly, and despite himself the young man smiles.
But all I asked was if you would walk,
and they do, out into the sweet chill of the evening, the green lawns and gravel pathways between trellised pink roses, lilies white as the ghosts of flowers in the dark though it is early yet, barely midnight after
A supper so dull,
sighs the gentleman,
that I traveled so far to attend, it is a pity. Ste.-Gilles sets a fine table, but I do not care for his amusements.

The boy retrieves the flask without asking, drinks a long draught, hands it back.
I was meant to be one of them, messire.
Now the brandy has reached his eyes.
But I was delayed, and ruined.

The gentleman indicates his dishabille.
By robbers?

By my—comrade. And then some burghers, God curse them, I think they broke my Marco. And now I am here alone, the Comte Ste.-Gilles will pay nothing, and—

You were to present at the dinner?

After dinner,
says the young man, pausing on the path as the gentleman pauses with him, takes a puff on his cigar that suddenly squeaks, “Ow! C’est chaud!” so he gives a start, almost drops it, looks sharply at the young man, then laughs.

You’re a conjuror, then.

The young man makes a lovely bow, and they walk on, lilies and cigar smoke, up and down the quiet paths. Upstairs, in the chateau, the dinner party continues without its evening’s central entertainment, causing disappointment amongst the guests, and distress in the comtesse:
They played at Marie-Elaine’s birthday fête, they were too quaint! The dark one sings and tells stories, and the one with the puppets acts them out, it was marvelous. And they are so handsome, too, those boys, boys of the avenue, you understand? Such pretty boys, I am really put out…. Pierre, go check the courtyard again, perhaps they have arrived—

—but they do not arrive, in tandem or separately, they perform nowhere onstage together ever again. If you asked the young man on the gravel paths, he might tell you it was due to his partner’s fierce intransigence, his lunatic’s insistence on certain modes of payment and behavior; if you asked that absent partner, he would very likely tell you nothing at all, only look at you in such a way that made the question itself seem a hazard, swiftly and prudently withdrawn. If you had been present at the time of the rupture, you might have glimpsed the tussle, might have heard the shouting, might have seen the young man seize his taller friend and insist that he not go, no,
you can’t leave, you mustn’t, Mouse, God damn you! Where will you go?

What difference to you? Our shows mean nothing to you, I know that now. You whore your toys, you whore yourself—

Stop this, why do you want to do this! We can make fine wages, steal from them if we like, do just as we please—

As
you
please. I won’t watch that again, I told you. I’m sick to death of watching.

You watch nothing! It means nothing!

That man, that—bourgeois—splayed out like cooling beef—

What I did has naught to do with you, with us. How can it? He was just—

Fine. Do whatever you want, you cur fox, you—cumbox—

—as from that point all deteriorates to violence and tears, one in flight, one on the tiles with his family of toys, soon overtaken by the drunken sons of local merchants who find it fine sport to fling his wires and tools around the cobblestones, toss the yarn and thread, abuse the puppets until the young man manages to poke out an eye or two, gather his torn children in the following confusion, and flee, weeping, furious, and bereft, heading toward the grand estate where perhaps his mate is waiting, perhaps having reconsidered his obdurate stance, perhaps stands in that very stable now, ready to extend his hand, his arms, make all as it was and should be, must be, must always be between them—

But instead the long, dusty trudge, the empty stable, the impossibility of continuing versus the equal impossibility of, what? Not continuing? Should he lie down in the straw and die because Rupert is a fool and a jealous fool, who still seems not to understand that no one, no one, not even Decca who would gladly die for either of them, no one who lives or ever will could ever be so close or dear or necessary as Rupert, why is he so criminally mulish, so entirely in the wrong? And thinking thus, the white knife in his hand, there sat the young man until arrived the gentleman with the cigar, to suggest certain easements of mind, and provide as well as the brandy and a wash a way into the next city, a restful ride in a pleasant cabriolet during which the gentleman pointed out monuments of interest and was taught, in turn, how to make a paper flower appear and disappear, a longish ride in which Istvan became Hanzel, alighting with if not a lighter heart then a mended case full of those over which he broods, his toys, his friends, his children, in the foul rented rooms over the butcher shop, the butcher’s wife an avenue to the kitchens of the bourgeoisie who, he finds, are more than pleased to pay him for what he can do, and free him, finally, from both his unfortunate lodgings and the butcher’s more unfortunate wife, whose silly tears he has grown, in these short weeks, to loathe.

Within a few more weeks, pockets full, he is riding back whence he came, not, this time, in a carriage but a fruit-wagon, making three lean children clap and shout while their older brother drives the crop to market, the marketplace where Hanzel searches without reward for his friend, who has disappeared more thoroughly than any paper flower or magic dove or puppet through a trapdoor, he is simply gone. Gone. Not even Decca knows where he is, or will say if she does, though he has no choice but to believe her after the hateful scene he causes, during and after which she holds, sobbing and stubborn, to her tale: she has not seen him, he has sent no hint or note or letter, she does not
know
,
Istvan, please, stop shouting at me! How many times must I say it, I’ve no idea where he’s gone!

Fine. Then I’ll stay with you, and wait for him to come.

Wait, yes, all you like! I hope he does come, I hope—

You hope what? Ag
where is he!

Please! Stop!

He stops. She hopes. But Rupert never comes.

Lucy bites the thread with a nip as neat as a mouse’s, holds up her handiwork to admire: Miss Lucinda’s new fascinator is taking capital shape, it will look a treat when she is done. All the practice with the costumes has made her an excellent seamstress, the struggle was to find suitable supplies: half the vendors of fancies have disappeared, the lace-ladies, the button-man with his trays of jet and bone, even the ribbon-clerk is down to green twill, white, and parson’s black. And Puggy has become so very stingy:
Lucy, stop, you’ve no idea. I’m pinched to the bone, Decca won’t let me spend a farthing
—

Just a handful of feathers!
was all she took, and a swatch of that moldy blue velvet, the blue thread from her bedroom hangings is nearly the same shade, and she will have all of that as she needs. The needle is Istvan’s, from restringing the Bishop, and wasn’t that a project, her fingertips are prickled still, and sore, she can barely pull pud for those beastly soldiers, Jesu knows there are so many of them now. Pearl says that one of them told her that they will be running the town soon, and she had better learn to love the taste…. And afterward, running anxious to ask Lucy
Is it really the foreign Hussars, like people say, coming for to take things over? Hussars, or is it Huns?
As if she would know, or it would make a penny’s difference either way.
Just fuck them,
she told Pearl.
Fuck them, and don’t listen.

The tallow throws uncertain light, matching the gloom outside, the cold noon sun still buried by clouds. Vera says before the snow falls, they will all be out in the Alley; she is very glum these days, Vera. Laddie drinks gin and tries to be cheerful. Jennie tries to stay upright inbetween tricks; she is getting worse, Jennie, on the nod most of the day, lost by dawn to dreams she cannot master, Lucy can hear her, whining and groaning in her sleep. The tricks have started to avoid her, always an ominous sign.

Now Lucy loops a hairsbreadth of thread around a tiny black quill, fixes it in place with stitches tinier still, carefully loops up another; the work is a pleasure for her. She has hinted that she would like to become more involved in the making of the shows, in planning as well as performance, but so far Istvan has put her off with a smile:
I fear my mecs would eat you, darling, if I left you in a room with them alone.