Under the Poppy (30 page)

There is no music but one seems to hear music, there is nothing but the man and his accomplice, the puppet and its animator, a sphere of longing and desire as great, and as small, as the world itself, the world of this shabby, quiet, exclusive little venue, the Fin du Monde, its center the stage where the man now bows his head as the puppet seems to lean forward on its own, to offer a secret to the couples at the cabaret tables, a secret it dare not share with the man—

“For only the lover understands

What price he pays for his love’s commands

As he strips his heart and courageously stands

At the bloody great gates of the God-damned Garden of Eden.”

Silence again, a hush like awe or grief until “
Merci
,” the puppet says coolly, “you may applaud,” and they do, the women beating their gloved palms together, the men their canes on the floor; one in particular, topped with a silver griffin’s head, thumps a martial tattoo. The man in the top hat lifts his masked face to the light, his smile as courteous as the puppet is not, and bows, bows again; when he stands upright, the puppet is gone, he is alone.

“A very good evening,
mesdames et messieurs
,” he says, then is gone himself behind the modest drapes that veil a backstage more modest still, a table, a half-filled water pitcher, the door to the alley before which waits a sturdy little half-bald man and “Thin crowd,” Istvan says, tossing down the mask and top hat, catching up an opera cape.

“The mayor’s sister,” says the half-bald man, “is the damsel in red. And her lover beside her, he’s the commissioner of drains.”

“Well, that suits…. Tell Jardin he still owes me for last week.”

“Certainly, Monsieur. Very good show, Monsieur.”

“
Merci
,” from the folds of the opera cape; Istvan exits into the rain.

Yellow hair in the gaslight bright as brass, golden as the little silk crown she stitches, her needle quick and sure and “I’m that proud,” Lucy says, “of our Mickey. You should have seen him climb the rig, without me even giving him the cue. He’s going to be a very fine player one day.”

Rupert nods through the cloud of cheroot smoke, the scent of strong tea, pouring for them at the wooden seamstress’s board that serves as a tea table, as the wide and cluttered chamber is parlor and workroom both. Outside are the streets and darkness, the long windows hidden by close-drawn canvas drapes. She in a gaily quilted wrapper, freesia and rose; he in dark serge coat, little silver spectacles in studious shine; he has recently begun to wear them, to need to wear them.

“Well,” he says mildly. “See his teacher.”

She dimples at the praise. It is late, well past midnight, but always there is more for her to do, costumes, props, her needle is rarely idle and it pleases her to sit beside him this way, working while he reads; sometimes he reads aloud to her, from the
Telegraph
or the
Daily Intelligencer
, the newspapers in English; sometimes silently, sipping and smoking as she gives him her news of the day.

And together they wait, as they do most nights, for the sound of the door, the rising step on the stairs. Tonight it comes while he reads aloud a review of a recent play,
The Lily of the Streets,
a sentimental entertainment of a poor lass forced into fucking for money, Lucy smiling and shaking her head—

“ ‘—pining in vain for her ultimate protector, destitute young Flora Prudence must endure great heartbreak—’ ”

“Flora Prudence!”

“ ‘—and the myriad humiliations of disease and daily sin, finally surrendering to the greatest sin of all, self-murder beneath the wheels of a carriage, though still preferable to her coarse and dreadful life on the boulevards. An instructive tragedy.’ ” Yawning, he folds the paper. “She’d not have lasted a week at the Poppy.”

“At least we never spread the venus clap. All the girls round here have it, Otilie says, even the ones in the houses…. Flora Prudence, that’s an awful moniker. Who’d pay to fuck that?” as “May be me, Puss,” pushing at the door, bright-eyed, hair loose and damp with the rain that has fallen all evening. “Just for a jolly lark.” Shrugging off the opera cape, dark velvet puddle on the floor, one hand waving before his face: “It’s smoky as Vesuvius in here. And drinking tea? Without a drop of brandy, I’ll be bound.”

“You’ve had enough for all of us.”

Lucy looks from one to the other, slips her needle into the golden crown, rises to kiss Rupert’s cheek, then Istvan’s, tip him a little wink. Off she rustles to her own room, from which she can hear the crossing footsteps, Istvan’s rapid, Rupert’s steady, up one floor to their chamber where “Jesu, Mouse,” tugging off his jacket, his dandy’s brilliant tie. “Am I drunk?” Kicking off his calfskin boots. “And if I am, what of it, yeah?”

Silent, Rupert drapes his own jacket on a silver coat tree, souvenir of some previous occupant of the building, once a kind of eating establishment, workingman’s tables and grub; then a series of mercantiles; and now the Blackbird Theatre, jewel-box seating with rooms above for Miss Lucinda Bell and her puppet troupe and traps, becoming known in the city for its quaint and surprising children’s playlets, and, in some more exclusive quarters, for the occasional participation of its player emeritus, himself known in many cities by many titles and names but in this place as Etienne Dieudonne, his own little joke for the man who stands beside him, now, in shirtsleeves and a frown as “Don’t scowl like some awful biddy,” reaching to slip the spectacles from Rupert’s face. “You know I always come back.”

Rupert makes a sigh so small it cannot be heard. “How was the show?”

“Ripping. The mayor’s sister was there
….
Listen. I saw Denis de Mercy tonight, up at the Beau Royale—”

“Was that a pleasure?”

Istvan’s own sigh, then, fingers nimble to unfasten the flat horn buttons of Rupert’s shirt, four buttons, six. “He won from me in lansquenet, then spent it double back on brandy. Most of which he drank, not I. And going on and on about the Blackbird, and Lucy’s moppets, his own brats are regulars apparently.…You know he’d pay us plenty, if that were ever the lure—”

“It’s not. Why must you forever—”

“Forever what,” though not a question; the shirt slides to the floor. “You’re so cold, why are you so cold…. He said he’s got a table for us, at the Opera Mauve. And you said you would go.”

“I said Lucy should go, if she likes.”

“She can come, too; she’ll relish it. All the fine ladies in their jewels and gowns…. Do it for her, then, if you won’t for me,” to bring Rupert’s melancholy smile, his own hands rising to draw Istvan closer, to hold him so until “The lamp,” turning to make the darkness as Istvan strips off his shirt, until only the fire burns, dull crimson in the grate beside the narrow bed, their orphans’ origins still telling, all the years spent sleeping tight to keep the heat, all the years spent in one another’s arms, from rooftop to roadside to brothel to here, this room, this city in the dark and drumming rain.

It is an old city, famous for its comic operas, its chocolates, its linden lanes and cheap available munitions; a city of electric lamps and coal fires and horseshit everywhere: the public boulevards, the market rows, the narrow backstreets, even the marble walkways recently installed outside the Elysium, host to one of the city’s most venerable traditions, the Opera Mauve that each year heralds the autumn season, where the city’s bourgeoisie daughters are traded like cards at piquet, while the great families sit apart, their own arrangements made elsewhere and in private; it is a city with a pleasant face, and deeply private heart.

On this evening the streets about the Elysium are filled with hired carriages; even those who live within blocks would never arrive on foot like country peasants. The men wear capes and swallowtail frock coats, the women lace and dominoes to mask their flushed cheeks, their jewels sparkling, some authentic, some mere paste to foil the footpads. There is laughter for no reason at all, the sound of a tuning orchestra, an avenue of white chrysanthemums and purple asters, and the gorgeous dying blaze of the Chinese maples, heart’s-blood red and emperor’s gold.

Alighting from a hired barouche, Rupert stops to pay the driver as Istvan and Lucy climb the steps, cavalier and lady, though the trio’s truer partnership is not to be displayed tonight. “Step lively, darling,” Istvan says in Lucy’s ear as they pass beneath the doorway wreaths of blazing candles, glimpsing, here and there, faces he recognizes—though tonight’s society, through which he moves as M. Dieudonne, will have incomplete knowledge of his dramatic achievements, in the past or of more recent vintage. “Soon you’ll see some fun—half these crocks will be drunk to tears by midnight, and the other half picking their matrimonial pockets…. ’Ware the battleship,” as a dowager and her daughter sail past, the girl’s curious gaze touching Istvan’s for just a moment too long, her mother’s hand quick to tug her sideways, toward more suitable gentlemen—though Maman’s sniff shows that she knows Istvan is no gentleman at all, no matter how fine his linen, how exquisitely he bows and “The quality,” says Lucy, with her own sniff. “As if you’d want that little sardine anyroad.”

“Not even as an aperitif. There you are,” as Rupert joins them, dark coat and velvet vest, Istvan’s smile calling from him the gaze that Lucy sees only at these times, that fleet, sweet, claiming glance—though now, in public, they must be alert, discreet; it is part of the reason, she knows, that she accompanies them tonight, as what the girls on the sidewalks call the agnes, the sacrificial lamb, what in some other towns is called a beard. As purveyors of the theatre, she and Istvan are already socially suspect, though the Blackbird’s popularity with the city’s children cleanses a bit of the taint. But if the true relations of the three were known, eyebrows would raise and doors would close, even those of “M. de Mercy,” says Istvan, with a little flourish of a smile. “And your rascal brother. Well met, gentlemen,” to the men who rise, laughing, to shake his hand in turn, bow over Lucy’s snow-white glove and “Which of us is the rascal, M. Dieudonne?” asks the older, fairer, thinner of the two. “I note that you didn’t name names.”

“That’s courtesy,” says the other, as the dark man behind Istvan extends his hand to be similarly saluted, though no banter is offered him, nothing but a smile and a nod toward a seat: the reclusive Mr. Bok, patron of Etienne and his Miss Bell. It is rumored that Mr. Bok has some highly placed connections in the city, though these are undefined, perhaps indefinable.

What is certain is that he is polite, in a silent way, as Etienne sips his brandy punch and jokes about cards with Denis de Mercy, draws out Miss Bell about her fairy theatre, the playlets of Sleeping Beauty, of Cinder-Ella and “You’ll see plenty of those tonight, Miss Bell,” Jean de Mercy says, nodding at the passing parade, the girls in their gauzy and intricate gowns, flowers made of ribbons, ribbons made of flowers, hair dressed and powdered with gold dust to make it glitter in the candlelight. “Each of them on the hunt for her own Prince Lovering.”

“Or my lord Moneybags,” says Istvan cheerfully. “Odd, how often they are the same fellow. See that charmer,” pointing with a nod toward a red-headed boy in scarlet breeches and a swallowtail coat striped so violently black-and-white that it dazzles the eye, paired with a bouffant tie of vile green. “Lucky the lass who bags him.”

“Lucky indeed. That’s Achille Guerlain,” says Denis de Mercy. “His father is the Bank Guerlain, old Honoré, you know. Married his own wife when he was fifty and she, what was it, Jean? Fifteen?”

“Twelve, more like,” says his brother, winking at Mr. Bok who makes a minor smile in return, concealing his own long-held opinion of the quality folk. Istvan moves among them as if their perks and pleasures were his to dispense by choosing to receive them, his politesse leavened always by a sneer so expert it is difficult to detect, a bubble of clear poison in a glass of excellent champagne.

But Istvan’s smile now is genuine as “Watch his didoes,” glancing at Rupert, nodding to the boy. “Who does he remind you of?” as the boy hops from table to table with a happy vigor, his ugly tie a beacon, his round cheeks flushed and “Puggy,” Rupert murmurs, as Lucy’s gaze goes bright with sudden tears, she blinks them gone and “A gentleman,” she says briskly to the table, “we once knew, who said that you could always tell a man by his duds—his haberdashery, that is.”

“Young Guerlain’s is decidedly Bedlam’s,” says Denis de Mercy. “It’s a foolish affectation, all these boys who worship the poets, those vagabonds from Le Veau d’Or—”

“Look,” says Jean de Mercy, as the boy, Achille, is joined by several others similarly dressed, chief among them a dark boy markedly graceful in his graceless garb, black and severe as a parson’s though with trousers so tight and frock coat so excessive—lapels drooping like lily petals, coattails that nearly graze the ground—his is the most extreme costume of all. “I never thought he would be here. The beggars’ opera, perhaps, but not the Opera Mauve—”

“Or the back-door cafés,” sniggers his brother. “Oh! I do beg your pardon, Miss Bell.”

Lucy gives a pleasant shrug, as if she is lady enough not to guess the allusion, wondering privately what this silly man would think, with his apologies and gloved-hand kisses, if he knew she had had a back-door whore for a neighbor and friend, right under the very same roof. Laddie and his hashish-pipe, his trouper’s dogged cheer, what happened to Laddie? to the ones who stayed, the ones who scattered? She recalls them sometimes as if they were her family, lost as her long-ago sister: Omar, Pearl and Jonathan, what passes with them now? She had sent a careful letter, once, addressed to Decca, asking what news, but received nothing in reply, as if the Poppy had disappeared like a dream the morning after. Sometimes those days do seem a kind of dream to her, all the tricks, all the time spent staring at the cracks in the ceiling, waiting for some fat bastard to come off…. And just the other day she stumbled over a little box of scarves and spangles, souvenir of the Poppy’s stage, she almost showed it to Istvan but in the end tucked the box away once more. Living in the past is not wholesome, and every day brings dreams and troubles afresh.

Untroubled, now, though, Istvan, is he? nodding and jesting with these toffs though watching, always, Rupert, who sits drinking little and saying less as the gossip goes on, Denis de Mercy wagging his head over “Benjamin de Metz, he’s always been a trial, Madame his sister lets him run entirely to the bad. That business with the tutor—” Rolling his eyes. “I’ll speak no further, before Miss Bell. But Caroline—my wife, that is—she says that her maid saw him battling-drunk outside the cathedral just last week, shouting at a constable—”

“And drunker still in the Exchange the next morning, I saw him myself.—Oh, a waltz,” as the orchestra’s strings grow louder, the melting strains of “Cupid’s Garden.” “Do you dance, Miss Bell? Would you favor me?” as Lucy smiles and rises, hand out to Jean de Mercy as “My brother,” says Denis, “is a direful partner, M. Dieudonne. Your lady will have broken toes to show for her courtesy. More punch, here,” waving at one of the servers, as Istvan looks past Lucy’s empty chair to catch Rupert’s eye, the song a memory he means to share—

—but Rupert is looking elsewhere, out toward the floor where the boy in black and his compatriots now stand in arms-folded mockery for the twirling couples to avoid, deliberately disrupting the dance, until a woman in black and white approaches, to tow the boy through the crowd that parts to give them space, past the tables where “Good evening, Madame,” says Denis de Mercy, instant to bow as she pauses, her brother silent beside her, hand to mouth chewing a knuckle. Pale in his black fantastic dress, dark curls and dark smudges beneath his eyes, handsome as a classical portrait, Youth in the arms of Vice; and she severe in her black-and-white, black silk and white décolletage, diamonds icy at her throat, the face above intelligent and cold, unattractive, alive.