Under the Poppy (25 page)

Swift she threads her needle, gives him a fat chunk of cork to bite and “This will hurt,” she says. “Try to think of something else…. You mustn’t move,” and he does not, though sweat runs down his greening face and she sweats to see it, knows the pain she causes, does not stop or flinch until the gash is mended; think of something else, yes, and “There,” Lucy trembling now that the job is done, clamping a folded square of yellowed silk to the wound. “If I had some gin—or dope, anything—or Laddie might have some smoke—”

“Not to worry, I’d thought it was worse,” and then for a moment darkness, how long? and he on his back on her bed, more blood, trickling down his face?—no, water, Lucy sprinkling water to bring him to but “Stop,” his whisper, “I’m all right—” speaking again to the darkness, eyes open once more to see Rupert, paler than he. Hoisted upright by strong arms, Rupert’s arms, Rupert’s voice harsh as Lucy settles him in Rupert’s bed: “Omar—the door, Omar, and not to move until I fetch you. Understand? Lucy, you come with me.”

It was Istvan Rupert meant to seek, after closing the door on Essenhigh heading off to round up his rabble, content to have delivered the bad tidings—

It’s the General’s orders, not mine: we’re to be on the road by morning, every man of us standing. Ask me, I’d’ve counseled we not stop here at all. Soldiers—men—don’t belong in a place like this.

And did the General ask?—
dry as he absorbed the news: never doubting its coming, still he had hoped for more time, a month, even a week, to compose some ancillary plan. Flux is already upon them: Istvan’s fury with Decca cannot bide with her presence; his time here too is ended, he knows, knew it in the dawn just passed, silent and replete: they will, they must leave together—with a moment’s honest pleasure for the pleasure that decision will bring to Istvan, but how is it to be accomplished? Especially now? Together they might travel swift and safe, they have done so before in dangerous conditions, but what of Decca and the others? Without the soldiers, this building—one of the few in town standing whole and wholly habitable—is bound to be swarmed, unless Omar and Puggy want to spend every waking moment gun in hand; if they had guns, and enough bullets to put in them…. Perhaps they ought all to go, travel in a body as far as Archenberg, say, or even Victoria, and in that city’s safety each disperse on separate paths. There are not provisions enough to shutter up and wait it out, and on what kind of desert would they reopen? even in the spring, when the need for fuel is less? No. The best solution is flight. As the army leaves, they will follow. May be that clod Essenhigh will provide some cover; if the General were here, they would certainly reach such an accommodation. Curious to think that Istvan knew Georges in another guise—the puppet-spies, a strange idea. Someday Rupert will hear all those tales—

—as he cracked his door again, on Decca, nearly on the threshold, about to knock? No, only standing, a wraith in the hallway waiting, for what? and weeping, see even in the dimness the shine of her silent tears. It is strange and sad, how little she cries, most girls will sob on a pin drop, but Decca’s tears seem to scald, have always been so; why? Strange and sad, to live with her so long, and know her so little, suspect none of her lies but only their reasons, she herself so strange and so sad and I heard, she said then, an airless little murmur. The army is leaving us.

And he as quiet to explain his plans, they must pack and gather, all of them, they must prepare to go—as her tears rained faster, was she frightened of the journey? They would be fleeing danger, worse to stay here, he tried to explain but still she wept and shook her head, stiff as wood when he took her, finally, in his arms, her own arms tight to her sides, face turned away until
Do you not see,
freeing herself, one hand out to touch the wall, as if it were a living person she grasped for strength, for comfort.
This place is mine. Your name is on the paper, and you’ve cared for it, yes, I’ll never say you haven’t. But it’s mine, and I’ll not leave it.

Silence then, Rupert surprised that he did not feel more surprise: and a relief that shamed him, how easy it would have been to say “yes” and go, to leave her, Christ knows he and Istvan had done it before, how many times before? so instead his arguments, quiet and stern: she did not understand, a building was not worth her life but
This is my life,
flat, her tears gone dry.
My own life, do you not see? You have Istvan, he has you. I have this.

His gaze turning cold, then, he could not check it, did not try as he saw that she understood, slowly shook her head and
You said you did not wish to speak of him, you said we would not speak of him
—

And what to say to that? more arguments? when all is finished, the chain broken that held him, too much life already given in the service of those lies, so
We must not be enemies,
he said, holding her gaze.
We have enemies enough out there,
nodding toward the stairs, the doors, the world, as the sudden rush of footsteps made that truth exquisitely clear: Lucy in anxious haste, he must come
now
, Mr. Rupert, hurry! to find Istvan white and bloody across her bed, his blood in surge so hard that for a moment he could not see, only that still face at the heart of a grayish tunnel, when Istvan stirred at last his own head swam. Under Omar’s guard in his own rooms, now, safe, now, but too near a thing—

—and Decca after one look thrusting Lucy aside: “I will see to him,” to Rupert, as if no one existed but themselves; it is for the last time.

A small blue tin fetched from her own rooms, from its hiding place in the seat of the petit-point chair; basin and bowl from the kitchens, water from the pot barely hot but warm enough to sponge the blood from his skin, his hair, pink floods of it, and she weeps, again, soundless and in pain: see the crooked pucker of Lucy’s black stitching, oh trust that whore to bungle it, if only he had come first to her…. Eyes closed his grimace as the water sluices down his chest, soaks the bed beneath, his sideways mutter—“Stop drowning me, darling”—then frowns, blinks, tries to sit up: “Ag?” as she presses him back, clean cambric, the last of her precious lady’s kerchiefs bound to the wound: “Be still. It’s I. Please, be still.”

From around her neck she takes a wee brass key to open the little blue tin: inside is a supply of laudanum, last souvenir of departed Dr. Adderley. She tips Istvan a generous swallow that he shudders to receive, waits, tips him another. As his taut shoulders ease, she sets aside the basin to wrap him in a fresher coverlet, and cleaner, at least she can spot no moving lice but “Stop,” he mutters, irritable now as the pain begins to lessen. “I’m not dead yet, don’t bind me…. Ag?”

“I’m here.”

An extravagant frown, brows together, lips pursed: somehow the wounding has made him younger, masks overridden by the hurt, parted by the drug and “Ag,” he says, “you lied to me.” Silence. “About Mouse, a villainous lie. Why?”

Silent still, she does not answer, begins methodically to dry his hair.
You and the jongleur, you are very like,
people have said things like that before but she never has seen the resemblance. He is so beautiful, has always been beautiful, men used to pay to watch him sing and jig, long before Marco, before Rupert ever put eyes on him…. His eyes are open, now, pupils wide: “Why the fuck did you lie? Tell me.”

Why did she lie? Which lie? Does it matter? She brushes back his hair. “Do you remember our mother?”

“Mother?” A different sort of frown. “I remember that she liked to sing. And she had a little velvet reticule with peppermints, pink peppermints, for when I had the stomachache…. Give me a drop more of that dope,” and she does, wondering which lady in his childhood doled out peppermints from a reticule, for surely their mother had had neither, would have sold both in an instant to keep them from the almshouse, from starving, herself starved to death at last on the pallet bed, squeezing Agatha’s hands, calling out again and again for her son,
Where is my boy?
It is in him to inspire love, Istvan, love and blind devotion, they never were alike so “Try to rest,” she says now. “I will sit with you, and Omar is outside, no one will pass. Try to rest.”

“Where is Mouse?”

“He will be here directly,” the last of her lies—or perhaps it is true; either way she will stay, calm and still in her own pain, what is pain after all but her oldest companion? oldest and most trusted—as he winces, he yawns and “I’ll not be near you,” he says, “not again,” and closes his eyes, she beside him, waiting till she knows he dozes to touch his forehead, the pale skin of his temples:
The mudhen hatched a peacock, their mother used to say. She will care for no one, ever, as she has cared for him, Istvan her very first love, peacock brother perched on the windowsill; but she is not sorry, no. Yes, she lied, but did she not in the end give each to the other, by giving them this place to meet again? And Istvan his road show, Rupert his authority, or at least the chance to ply it, for both of them that chance? Apart, they grew stronger than they would have together. And she is stronger, too, and wiser: she will not leave what is hers, no, and will release what is not, has never been. This is my life; yes. That is the truth.

A scratching at the jamb, Lucy’s worried face to whisper through the gap: “How does he now? I can spell you.” Decca barely spares the stare that backs Lucy from the door, to the outer door, to the hall and Omar’s shrug, her own to meet it as she rises on tiptoe to tuck, what, a little mirror, crazed-silver, old but still intact, over the threshold: “To ward off the evil eye,” explaining to Omar who nods, privately considering the gesture somewhat late, but surely Istvan was blessed enough to keep hold of his head, whoever it was tried to take it from him. Hear Mr. Rupert, now, closed up with that Mr. Arrowsmith, if he was not tasked to guard he would have been there sharpish to listen, Miss Decca’s parlor, not a word can be heard from here but he dare not move an inch, Mr. Rupert would take
his
head and no mistake, Mr. Rupert in a rare killing mood—

—as is noted by Mr. Arrowsmith, himself very grave, watching Rupert cold as stone in the foolish little duchess chair, gaze unnaturally bright and “I had thought,” says Mr. Arrowsmith carefully, “to meet with Essenhigh—we spoke, just now, in the lobby—and visit with yourself, and Hanzel too, before I left town. But now this—incident. Did Hanzel name the one who—”

“He’s not spoken yet,” beyond murmurs, Rupert’s harsh whisper,
Who did this to you?

There were two.

Who were they?

I didn’t see much. Just the knife,
with Decca’s echo in his head,
That man wants him dead, can you understand though he refuses?
And his own stupid assertion,
Vidor will not touch him,
though he had seen it in his eyes, seen it in that room…. Jesu. Once again he is wrong, once again someone else has paid, Istvan has paid…. He looks, now, at Arrowsmith, silent and alert across the damasked table, teakwood case on the floor beside.

“Mr. Vidor,” he says, and pauses; Mr. Arrowsmith waits. It is very quiet in the room. His hands lie clenched in his lap; still they tremble. Some of Istvan’s blood has stained his shirt-cuffs.

“Enough,” Rupert says.

They gaze at one another, Mr. Arrowsmith gives the slightest nod. “I understand. The General will as well. One must do as nature bids him…. May I see Hanzel?” as both stand, Rupert leading the way to his rooms, asking as they go, “You are with us until—?”

“The train departs just before midnight, I believe.” Mr. Arrowsmith nods to Omar ferocious on the threshold, arms folded like a palace guard’s and “I’ll wait here,” says Rupert, seating himself on the edge of the cracked-leather chair, hands on his knees, their tremble stilled. “I beg pardon, sir, but—leave that writing box. And keep the door open.”

Mr. Arrowsmith gives him a look he cannot read. “Of course. Your caution is admirable, I understand completely.”

Decca emerges with the basin and the tin, brushing Rupert in passing—her second love, he has had his farewell—and is gone before Arrowsmith has seated himself beside Istvan who, wrapped and drowsy, manages a mummer’s wry smile: “You see me cast in the role of goose, messire. Carved up for the table.”

“A phoenix-bird, rather. Still it is a great pity,” with a shake of the head, something there of the rueful uncle, the elder brother, something genuine and genuinely fond. “You told me once that you would depart in time. With—” a sideways nod, to indicate watchful Rupert outside.

Istvan shrugs, then starts from the pain the motion brings. “Jesu.—Yes, well, it’s he who blocked me.”

“No doubt with sufficient reason. Well, one may safely leave matters in his hands, now.” Mr. Arrowsmith looks about the half-tidy room, the splashed floor, the splotched and disordered bed, the puppets arrayed outside like waiting courtiers, surrounded by their traps and detritus; he smiles a very small smile. “You are a most dramatic fellow, Dusan.” Then the smile fades. “What has befallen you is more than regrettable. A citizen attacked in the street by brigands, this town has tipped into chaos entire. If you need aught in the way of doctoring, I’ll have Essenhigh send a man—” A noise past the doorway, the faintest creak of a chair. “Otherwise, I have nothing left to offer but my farewells. Perhaps we’ll meet again—in the spring, say, in London? Sir Henry Irving’s at the Lyceum.”

Istvan shakes his head. Drugged, stitched and white from bleeding, it is still his drawing-room voice. “Spring in London gives me
la grippe
. I prefer Brussels.”

“Certainly. On Goldsmith Street.”

Mr. Arrowsmith rises on a bow, murmurs in Istvan’s ear a word or two too low to carry, gives his uninjured shoulder a brief pat: “Be well, young man.” In the outer room he retrieves his writing case, shakes Rupert’s cold hand, noting as he does how weary Rupert looks; he is a young man, too, with many cares, not least of them Dusan. “I can be reached in Gottsburgh,” says Mr. Arrowsmith, “should the need require; the General as well. Beyond that, we sail.”