Under the Poppy (14 page)

By the time they near Victoria, near penury again, she understands that she loves him, not only as Rupert who saved her from the alley, Rupert the Mouse she has known since her girlhood, but as a man. When he is busied with other tasks, she studies him, his face when he reads, his hands when he counts coinage or sharpens his knife: the line of his jaw, the gypsy pelt of his hair, the way he rubs his forehead when the headache comes upon him. Twice she has tried to take that office, gently stroke the pain away, but he puts her off, less kindly the second time. Other remedies she dare not offer, as she dare not offer her love for him; he will never want her that way, no. In his eyes, she is dressed in Istvan’s luster, valued mainly as a reminder; this she understands as well. Some nights in the depths of her troubled dreams they meet Istvan on the road, a princely Istvan robed in gold and motley, wooden Marco his lieutenant at the head of a puppet army; or a black-clad Istvan flying fleet and secret as a cuckoo, swooping down upon them from the sky. In every dream, his eyes accuse her. From every dream, she wakes with a little cry.

Whom they meet in truth, in a buggy ale shop just outside of Archenberg, is another kind of fortune: A man short and massive as a badger, an older man called Mr. Mattison,
who is searching, he says, for a temporary bravo, a man-at-arms for his fancy-house since
My old fellow’s gone sour with the clap, diddling too much with the fancies; he’s no use to me just now. You look fierce enough, young sir, are you clean also? With your pretty young lady there at your side?

Rupert does not even smile—
You may trust that I am clean that way, sir—
and goes to work that very evening, vetting the callers at the Rose and Poppy, as Decca installs in the kitchens of the house. If the girls there are clannish and disagreeable—and they are—still Mr. Mattison is a fair if slovenly master, both to Rupert and to herself, and, as the old bravo seems unlikely to recover, mayhap Rupert will decide that they shall stay for good. Winter has taken hold in earnest, and here is a warm place to sleep, food to eat, one could almost call it safety—

—until the quiet afternoon that Rupert comes to the pantry-room off the kitchen where she sits scraping potatoes, to sit sideways on the little cot and tell her that he is going, declining to say exactly where as Mattison sends you? she asks, guessing this is not the case, certain when he does not answer. Do you—will you—search for Istvan, go to Istvan, ever come back? but she can never ask those questions, can only perch stiff on the stool with her paring knife as Mattison will look after you, Rupert says; already his gaze is distant. I’ve paid up your board until spring.

And what then?

For that one moment his stare is hers, the darkness of it, the truth: that he has truly been elsewhere all along, worked only to weave her a nest and
I have to go,
he says.
I have to know.
A kiss on the cheek, brief and fraternal, grip-bag in hand and he is gone, as she sits on the stool, peels curling dry at her feet, sits on the stool and stares at the knife in her hand. Late that night Mr. Mattison finds her weeping, face turned toward the wall and
Ah,
he says,
stout and warm and smelling of brandy,
don’t cry, child. ’Twill all resolve, you’ll see.
There are more things here for you to do than scour spuds, eh?

I can sing,
she sobs.
I can sing and dance, and play onstage—

Hush,
says Mr. Mattison, taking her into his badger arms.
I know you will do capital. Hush, child, you’ll see.

Arthur Redgrave

To govern a municipality such as this town, sir, you got to keep an open mind. I say this often, I’ve always said it, and Mr. Vidor agrees. Not everything you want can always be had, and not everything you dislike can always be avoided. And everyone’s his own idea of what’s right and what’s wrong. So truly, you got to keep an open mind.

Mr. Vidor and I see eye-to-eye on many factors, even though he’s traveled a bit more of this old earth than I have, and we both understand certain things. Such as that a man wants a little bit of warmth on a cold night, a bit of drink and a bit of fluff, and what could ever be the matter with that? I am a staunch supporter of the church, of course, and of Christian morals, I seek to live them out every day of my life, as a mayor as well as a man. Did I not pay with my own funds to have the churchyard cleared and weeded, and marble stones brought in for them who wanted to purchase, and mark the resting bones of their sacred dead folks? And do I not sponsor the Little Misses’ milk breakfast every Eastertide? A man has got to have a strong moral compass, or what’s to become of him in the end?

So this business with the Poppy is a conundrum. This business with the horse, that is. I needn’t say more about it except that it is a, a barnyard type of act, something that men ought not to watch, or not to pay to watch, at any rate.

And I will say, I am very disappointed in Mr. Bok. I have had many dealings with him previously, business dealings, that is, and he has always been a very sound fellow, a supporter of the town, kicks in his share of lucre when it’s needed, keeps his house nice and quiet. I don’t believe we’ve ever had to send the constables out there, what with Mr. Bok himself and that big Omar, they keep the peace quite sufficiently and well. Although Elwin—Mr. Franz, that is, he’s my deputy-mayor—Mr. Franz says that Omar was a tick hasty with his fists the other day, when he came to call. And on official business, too.

What we’ll do about it next, the horse business and all, I’m not yet sure. In Elwin’s opinion—well, he is a bit disputatious on the issue, he feels the whole place ought to be shut right down, and its trade split up three ways, with Miss Suzette, Angus, and the Gaiety, and mayhap a donation to the coffers from them who are pleased by the split. Which is a nice touch—Elwin tries to think in the town’s best interests, always.

Mr. Vidor has a different idea. His thinking is it’s not Mr. Bok at all behind this behavior, but that vagabond from France, that long-haired popinjay who brought his dolls and his vices to town, and that if we drive that one out, the Poppy will be right as rain again. I lean somewhat toward this view myself. Although I did like some of the new playlets, I must admit. The little troll-type puppet, singing his songs—why, I laughed fit to split. One knows it isn’t real, that funny ugly little man, but when he starts humping at Vera, you feel the tickle anyway! And singing at the same time, pert as a jaybird—

Well, as I say, it is a conundrum. And the army being here as well makes things much more difficult, and it all moves along quicker, too. From what the colonel tells me—he’s quite a good fellow, that Colonel Essenhigh, likes his gin and faro, and a bit of fluff like any man does, in fact Angus says that his girls are quite taken with
…
Well, as I say, the colonel tells me that the army’s on the march now, up there in the hills, and we’ll have to bolt the shutters sharpish. He’s even brought that General Georges to town, to lend some aid. Now
there’s
a gentleman I’m not sure of, that general. Shakes your hand and speaks squarely, but you’re never quite certain what he’s said when he’s finished. Just like that Mr. Arrowsmith, cut from the same bolt, those two. All smiles and courtesies, but when they walk away what have you got in your hand?

And now I’m hearing from Faulk, over at Miss Suzette’s, that they’re thinking of closing up shop altogether, moving the young ladies up to Archenberg or even Victoria, to keep them out of harm’s way. Miss Suzette is very poorly, she never did get over that scarlatina she had so long ago: it sapped her heart, Faulk tells me, and she is not a young lady any more. So if they go, that leaves us Angus and the Alley for all those soldiers. And the Gaiety, although that crowd fancies itself real players, you’ve got to cuddle and cozy up the girls to get them to do anything, buy champagne and whatnots, and no soldier’s going to do that, not in the midst of a war! There’ll be no champagne to buy at any rate, already it’s getting difficult to bring in certain foodstuffs, this winter’s going to be a rouser. And if we can’t get liquor, or enough coal… My uncle Arthur, who I’m named for, why, he was caught in a siege years and years ago, and according to him things went dire fairly swiftly, they were burning up the floor planks, and eating the wallpaper for the horsehair glue. Awful, what people get down to when they’re hungry. And the hungrier they are, the worse they act.

So I’ve much to think of, these days, much to keep on my mind. And even though Mr. Vidor’s urging me to act strong and swift with that Frenchman—and even though Mr. Vidor’s been more than generous with the town, spending as freely as he does—his bill at the livery, it’s a wonder. And what he spends at the hotel!—even so, I want to make no kind of move I’ll be regretful for later. Because after the soldiers have passed through, and the colonel and the general, and even Mr. Vidor—who’s from France himself, I always thought, or Belgium, one of those Continental places—when they are all gone, there will still be the townsfolk here, and myself, and Mr. Bok and the Poppy, why that building’s been here long as the town, almost, since the days of old Mattison, now there was a fine gentleman, he and I used to play whist together…. And we will all of us need to pick up what pieces we find, and put the town to rights again, and move on. So that is why I am keeping an open mind.

“It would be good to have a fire, here, even just a grate and three coals, anything to keep the stiffness from his fingers. Carving is a devil of a business, one slip and the whole head is ruined…. Swearing softly and happily, Istvan repositions himself beneath the ceiling’s straying light, planing knife nimble in his hand, sculpting a new puppet, a kind of toby-dog to pop up and bark when required. When the knock comes, he whisks the head under covers, but “Ah, Lucy-Belle,” as Lucy slips inside, still cloaked against the cold. “My good angel, tell me you have what I’m needing.—Oh capital, darling,” unfolding the paper parcel, coiled wire and tiny shiny beads. “Do I ask how you managed, or just offer my endless gratitude?”

x“It’s bad out there,” says Lucy soberly, stripping the holey gloves from her fingers, two pair for each hand, contrasting holes mated to keep as much skin covered as can be. “I had to go ’most to Archenberg for the beads, the milliner’s sister’s place. And the Palais is closing up in earnest, I saw that turd Faulk bundling mattresses onto a cart. Josey—one of the girls there, she’s my friend from before—Josey says the soldiers are taking over their building, to use it as a house-in-town. I saw two of them pissing in a corner of the yard, so may be it’s true.”

“Really,” Istvan’s musing frown, threading a bead on the wire. “We should offer the brave boys a citizens’ discount…. Say what you think of this, now,” peeling back the coverlet to show the face-in-progress, as Lucy settles on the bed to see, companionably close but dreaming no more of growing closer; those first fantasies of arnica and romance superceded not only by apprenticeship but observation, Istvan and Mr. Rupert, and of course the open secret of their new pleasure has permeated the house; impossible to hide a thing like that, with Mr. Rupert glowing like a boy. Although Lucy has kept prudent on the subject, not taunting Decca though she longs to, Decca who feigns an ignorance so all-encompassing and black that to speak of it at all would invite apocalypse so “Have you a name for him?” Lucy asks, fingering the puppet’s forming face, wishing she knew the way to draw a soul from a stick of wood, and bad wood, too, half of what they have is barely fit to burn. May be it is like music, how Jonathan can coax a pretty tune from anything, a pair of spoons, or Pearl’s rusty old pennywhistle, like music too in that the hands’ skills come only with practice and more practice. Such strong hands, and supple—and she sighs a little, gives the puppet back to Istvan as “Vanities,” he says, “idols, some church folk call them, they think our small friends here are vessels for wayward souls, or homes for demons.” He smiles gently. “I shall call him the Erl-King, what do you think? And the new show—not a word to Puggy yet, mind—is to be called ‘The Knave of Hearts.’ ”

Lucy gathers her gloves and cloak. “Will Pan Loudermilk be in it?”

From the coffin closest to the door comes a rustling, chuckling, muttering noise, as if someone is knocking, greedy and keen and “Hard to keep him out,” says Istvan, with a tender wink. “Or in… If our master’s about in the hallways, darling, will you tell him that I want him?”

Lucy gives him back the wink. “The whole world knows you want him. If I see him, I shall say.”

The whole world? Well, he thinks, as she slips from the room, let them know, if only some are kept in darkness, darkness is the watchword just now as the performance comes to term. Lucy is in charge of the girls, trustworthy Lucy the godsend to take Puggy’s place, Puggy who has been tasked only with talking up the show while concealing its content—

How can I tell what you’ve not told me? Jesu! Why not tie the fucking blindfold and be done!

Mystery makes the best drummer,
Istvan soothes, and it is true that Puggy has drummed up a mighty interest, not coincidentally amongst those who will be sure to take the Poppy’s side, the long-time tricks and supporters, as well as several in the hotel whom Istvan has himself informed. Omar has been advised that he must be on the muscle and ready for anything, if he feels he need hire a bravo or two then he must do that without delay. For his part, Jonathan works to score the evening, a dark and tinkling tune suitable for Messalina’s music box, perhaps, or Lilith’s panpipes in the dark of the garden.

As for Rupert, ah, his Mouse has been in the thick from the start, just as he used to be, everything but take to the stage himself: suggesting, correcting, defining, even scribbling a line here and there:
We will spin them one story whilst they watch another, and let them parse it out for themselves. Are you up for a tumble, messire?

Are you?
Jesting, teasing, light at heart enough to leap to the roof and touch the stars, oh this time they shall revel, whip up the yokels while they put that old masher on stiff notice…. The knife pares patient at the wood, the nascent lines of the face that is mostly mouth, mainly hunger, this other knave of hearts scraped and whittled and back into the sack until he will be ready for the light.