Under the Poppy (38 page)

“I’ve a stop or two to make first,” plucking up a domino of quilted red felt, spangled with diamonds made of paste. “We’ll meet backstage,” and then he is off, down a different set of stairs, narrow wooden slats as old as the city itself, into the street again and through the dollhouse lane, past the windows where the gaslight shines on a series of lovely tableaux, lovely girls in lace and petticoats, sipping “tea” or reading poetry, those who can read, or brushing out long yellow locks, winding brunette curls about their fingers, giving fraught and naughty frolicsome winks to those passersby they deem most likely to stop, to spend, to try to purchase what, like a puppet’s gambols, can never be wholly owned. Some of them know Istvan, nearly all of them wink as he passes, and he winks in return: this field of flowers, of poppies, yes, and roses, like the roses favored by Madame, such livid colors, no doubt she would grow them black if she could. A taste for the perverse, perhaps; perhaps that is why she invited the General to her soiree, though the look she gave him in that alcove was not that of a friend. Does she mislike the General, Madame, for reasons of her own? Those reasons would be good to know—

—with a sketched smile in passing for the peony in the bouquet, a chubby, ruffled blonde, blowzy princess who blows him a kiss as he hails a ride, tipping the driver so lavishly that the man blinks—“Why, many thanks, sir!
Many
thanks!”—but only because he reminds, in the cab’s dimness, of Rupert, Rupert as a younger man, the Rupert who kept him safe from the hooligans and pennytop brigands, broke a truncheon on their skulls a time or two, slept always on the outside, to shelter Istvan from harm. Rough-shorn head and tense, lean-muscled shoulders, like this man’s, the neatly brushed dilapidated coat, long strong hands upon the reins and “Many thanks,” again as Istvan alights, looking up into the man’s face, the cheekbones coarser than Rupert’s, the blue eyes not like at all. The driver holds his gaze a moment, a moment longer—“Another turn around the block, sir?”—as Istvan pauses with his hand on the cab’s door, the two men regarding one another in the darkness of the street before the Blackbird, the empty street, the driver’s faint, cautious smile—

—but “A good evening to you,” says Istvan, and turns for the door, thinking, as he mounts the stairs, of all the moments just like that one, moments brief as memories fading even as they happened: an afternoon, an alcove, a wool coat rubbing rough against the skin, the smell of well water, of a stranger’s sweat…. Has he been faithful? Why bother to ask? when it is only the heart that signifies, his own heart always Rupert’s from the first day they met, that dark fierce boy coming out of the rain, gone from the friary but still half a monk himself, so buttoned-in, so shy in his desires. Nothing like this boy who courts him now, bold as Cupid, yes, with a quiverful of arrows, and Rupert caught by the attention, whether he owns it or not, one can see through him like glass: that little frown, He needs some industry. Under this roof, no less! Pretty eyes, pretty ways, he says that he saw you, at the Calf.…What else don’t you tell me, messire? Pushing and goading until Istvan must push back, hand to his shoulder, a grab to a shove and then fighting, yes, like boys, torn shirt and cracked table, a glass crushed to splinters, Rupert grappling him down onto the floor, fury alchemized to passion and lying afterward in the debris, breathing hard, aching like athletes after a bout as Jesu, Rupert’s murmur, you nearly broke my arm, to bring Istvan’s half-lidded smile: Better that than a broken heart, yeah?

And stepping now past the parlor door, Mouse inside with his cheroots and newspaper like some sober magistrate, this man who once stood off an alleyful of bashers, a war’s-worth of brimstone, Jürgen Vidor and the General and all, looking up with that same unchanging smile as Istvan reaches, gently, to take off the little silver spectacles and “Why don’t you like my glasses?” Rupert asks, tolerant and annoyed. “You once said gravitas becomes me.”

“You’re not old enough for such trifles. Save it for the graybeards.”

“Old enough?” musingly; he sets his paper aside. “I never expected to live this long.”

Face-to-face in the lamplight, Istvan’s face as open as it can ever be, gaze cast down and “Leave with me,” he says abruptly. “Now, tonight. We’ll do as we did, take only what we can carry, I’ll carry Feste, we’ll be miles away by morning…. Oh why that look! Is it so strange a notion? Why can we never be as we were?”

“How can we? That tramping is for boys; we’re men, now. And we have—”

“Have what? People? Duties? To whom, save ourselves?”

“Have a home,” so simply said that Istvan goes silent, a silence that hangs in the quiet of the room, the mantel clock’s clicking silver pendulum, a carriage clattering through the street below, until “As you say,” with a smile of such compliant carelessness that Rupert rises from the chair, ready for more—but there is no more, only Istvan pouring out a little whiskey, a generous brandy, taking his seat in the seat opposite so Rupert, bemused, resumes his own, drinking together and talking for long minutes of nothing in particular, nothing that matters, certainly not “The General,” Rupert’s raised eyebrows, “he spoke to you, at that dinner, didn’t he? I thought we were shut of that bastard in Brussels. What was that all about?” but Istvan’s shrug makes nothing of the meeting: “Whoever knows? Tapping the knifepoint, to see if it holds its edge…. Do you know, I think the old fuck cheated his partner at cards? I thought sure I saw him palm the king.”

“Cheating a comrade? That sounds very like.” Shaking his head as he is led without knowing onto a path of safety, of other topics far afield; himself the shelter for so long, well, let Istvan be that shelter now, whatever it may require.

Drinks done, the clock’s hands reaching for half-past ten, Istvan handing back the little silver spectacles gleaming empty as blind eyes upon the table, lover’s eyes and “Don’t wait,” he says, rising to stretch, head back, a foxy, feline motion, there will always be more boy in him than man, the eternal, restless youth of the player. “I’m off,” into his rooms for a thing or two, for Feste, “for the morning papers,” with a swift smile to match Rupert’s—“Lansquenet, isn’t it?”—who watches him go, out the door, down the stairs—

—to detour, briefly, into Lucy’s province, the Blackbird’s backstage still lively with Didier studious over his penny-flute, Mickey hanging up-so-down from a ladder “Like a bat!” he calls, flapping his thin arms. “See me, Mister Istvan!” as Lucy looks up from her string-work, a quick smile that widens as he takes from his pocket the blue velvet package, its ribbon untied to let the little fish swim straight into her hands—“For me?”—with such astonished pleasure it is a pleasure to behold. Pinning it at once to her bodice, admiring its gleaming scales, its moveable tail, as cunningly worked as a puppet’s joints and “Toss that other away,” he says to her, that dead blue eye, souvenir of several things he cares never to recall.

“I shan’t do that. But you won’t see it again,” rising to kiss his cheek in thanks, as Didier blows a fanfare on the whistle, and Mickey topples backward, raises dust, coughs out a dusty laugh.

It is livelier still at the Fin du Monde, a fifth table tugged into service tonight to service the overflow crowd: a portrait painter from the Academie, with wife, mistress, and retinue, out for a night on the town; a cassis-sipping dandy, auburn beard and monocle, with a pretty young poetess in tow; a gentleman in pinstripes, drinking port; and the imperious marquesa right up front, cherry-red lace and rather shocking décolleté, demanding “
Dove il spettacolo
?”—where is the show? Beside her several compatriots, two lean and sullen cavaliers and a friendlier fellow, grandfather’s belly and bald head, soothingly splashing more champagne for all.

The marquesa turns out to be quite a competent singer, trilling a backstreet aria along with the cool and purring Feste, more imperious even than she; they make in fact such a lovely duo that an encore is requested, a sad and lilting little tune the marquesa recalls from her childhood, rewarded at its close by a standing ovation; twenty people can make a great deal of noise. Afterward, flushed rosy as a girl, the marquesa demands the return of the handsome puppet master, he must come and drink with her, he must come and dance, there is dancing to be had someplace, an orchestra, she is sure of it, even in this dull metropolis—

—but already Istvan has stripped off his top hat and domino, spangled red and damp with sweat, as Mr. Boilfast, smile on his face, razor in his pocket, conveys past the shabby curtains the gentleman in pinstripes, carrying a griffin-headed cane. There is not much space between the stage and the street, but the two men have room enough to meet, and talk, like the old and affable friends they are: both devotees of the farce well managed, the
mot
efficiently employed; and enemies of pain without reason, force engaged when wit would do as well, or better.

“You are looking quite well, Dusan,” says Mr. Arrowsmith at last, taking up his hat. “I am happy—very happy—to renew our connection once more.”

“I’m happy to see you behind the lights. Do you stay?”

“No, my primary business is concluded.” He pulls on a glove, pauses in nearly natural recall. “I understand we have a lady friend in common—Mme. de Metz,” with a hint of a smile. “She tells me good things about your apprentice, Mlle. Bell. And your
confrère
. Her brother—Benjamin, you have met him—he is quite impressed as well with M. Bok.” Out front, one can hear the marquesa calling for the puppet master,
encore, encore,
as the spinet-piano leaps to life once more. “Almost overly so, in fact. Someone could make ill use of that attachment, if he were so inclined.”

“Someone with an impure heart?”

“Precisely.” Mr. Arrowsmith’s smile has gone; Istvan wears one now, a chilly, mocking little grin. “Time is indifferent to ambition, have you ever marked that? And power has no choice, it curdles or it feeds. Regrettable, that even one’s closest associates are not immune.” The two men gaze steadily, one to the other, until “
Hors de combat
,” says Istvan, very softly, and Mr. Arrowsmith nods.

“I saw the way the cards fell in Brussels—there’s much prudence in knowing when to leave the game. And we all play the hand fate deals us. Hector, too.” The marquesa is singing again,
tira-lira, tira-la,
like a voice from out of time, a safer, smaller world. “Isobel—that is, Mme. de Metz—knows, always, how to reach me. Never fear to ask her…. Until the next performance, then,” shaking hands, shaking his head in private rue as he steps into the alley, to the narrow hack awaiting him, the cold metal seat; he can see the smoke of the horse’s breath in the air, autumn is upon them now, winter hard on its heels. In his pocket is a jumbled sheaf of poetry, very bad poetry, very carelessly left where anyone might see it, a maidservant, say, who tidies a young man’s rooms—Your closeness on the path, Maître/Makes my heart spin like a compass needle/Makes my head swim like absinthe/The delirium of desire—the ardent, silly poetry of a boy in love. First love, perhaps, the most dangerous of all, when one feels his strength is the strength of ten because his heart is pure. But the heart of the impure has its own power, as Dusan wisely noted…. Back beneath the Poppy, Mr. Bok did them a service, sending Vidor on his way. And surely Dusan is not the only available courier, though it is true that his venues make him more useful than others might be, and more elusive; true too that Hector does not brook much opposition, if any, without reprisal, especially in this case, the wished-for scout on the future’s dark paths…. Eh bien. No player, however skilled, can win every hand, that is the highest truth of all.

“Driver,” Mr. Arrowsmith calls, “stop a moment, pray,” beside a brick
pissoir
, where Mr. Arrowsmith steps inside to relieve himself of the poetry, white fragments down a dark hole, as a midnight rain begins, a cold curtain tasting of sleet, the hack driver glad to turn at last for the stable, to dry his horse beneath rough blankets, while in other quarters the disconsolate marquesa upsets her champagne glass; Rupert, weary, pulls back the narrow coverlet; and Benjamin sits in the smoke and clatter of the Golden Calf, chewing his knuckle, scratching line after line into a red-bound little journal: the shadow of stubble on a handsome cheek, dark eyes as deep as the midnight sky, the gleam of stars aligned, like destiny, spelling out one true and special name.

Isobel

Every day brings its own tedium, but today was more wearisome than most. With the morning’s tea, a whining note from Letty van Symans, piqued about Benny’s absence at her nameday fête, what does she suppose I may do about it? Bundle him in a basket to her door? Then the florist’s man came about the evergreens, and Helmut in from Chatiens with the month’s accounts: half the day gone in columns of figures, his tiny, crushing boilerplate hand and
Apologies
, from the other side of the desk, smelling of those digestive mints he chews.
I try to trouble you as little as I may, Madame,
but that is simply politesse: who else ought he to go to? I am the man of this house; it is my task.

They think me singular, I know, these men who move about in my orbit, perhaps they wonder that I do not retire to the country, let my father carry all the burden of authority; some of them find our household here a kind of oddity. Like Mr. Entwhistle—references or not, I begin to believe I have made an error employing that young man. Last week it was the stuffed swans in the drawing room, not only their “indecorous” position but Benny’s mockery:
Do you think it is like?
with Pinky’s mouth all pursed up like Mr. Entwhistle’s, he really is a rather gifted mimic:
Why, I can’t say, sirrah, I’ve never fucked a bird.
And then snickering together like children, while the man comes complaining up the stairs to me.

And what is it today? Sitting arms-folded in the chair, that awful coat, does he own no other? with a laundry list, a litany of Benny’s wrongs: he is rude, he is preoccupied, he is not attending to his studies as he should—

And why do you believe that is?

Master de Metz is not tractable, Madame, even at the soundest of times.
“Sound,” his greatest compliment; what sort of experience must the fellow have had, what fear of chaos, when soundness, safety, is the highest good there is?
But now, Master de Metz is utterly distracted with those—players. His involvement there is neither proper nor sound, Madame, and I must protest
—

Your protest is noted,
I told him, while trying to indicate—for a tutor, he is fairly dull—how Benny’s time at the Blackbird is actually quite wholesome: he is learning how to use a hammer, for one thing, and make himself useful; he spends less time at the cafés, and when he goes, comes back well before dawn, early to bed, early to rise, as bright as a schoolboy, indeed. If it is not Mlle. Bell and her quaint urchins who draw him, well, that is no affair of Mr. Entwhistle’s, or of anyone’s except M. Bok, who must surely understand what it is that Benny is doing there in his theatre, or here in the drawing room…. We had him solo to dinner last week, as M. Dieudonne was elsewhere engaged: a merry meal, just the three of us with a capon and wine, crystallized violets and some very dry champagne, and Benny afterward at the piano, playing Chopin études, while M. Bok drank his whiskey and parried all my questions: Did he play the piano? No, though he cared much for music. Chess? Never learned. Had he been out to the country recently, perhaps, for the hunting? which brought a kind of smile to him, a coolish humor and No, Madame, he said. I find I have very little taste for the kill.