Under the Poppy (57 page)

Her engagement—what a singular moment, an event she had long ago ceased to believe in, let alone ever expect. There at tea with Javier, noting his sudden silence, then astonished by the ring, a sapphire in a nest of diamonds, weighty and imposing, though his proposal was a model of delicacy:
If it suits you, Isobel
…? And when she had accepted—for of course she had accepted—he put the ring upon her, he kissed her on the forehead with great affection and respect:
You have done so well on your own, my dear, it is time for you to rest. I should like to stand between you and the world, for as long as life lets me.
Her own tears surprised her; Javier did not seem surprised.

The ceremony itself was quick and secret, there in a Barcelona hotel: the ambassador and his wife to witness, Benjamin and Christobel the guests, Benny very drunk, afterward, on whiskey and champagne. His own wedding had been barely more public, though it was accomplished in a chapel, a lovely Moorish chapel filled with bright, angelic light, Christobel trembling with emotion, Benny so calm and remote. The Guyons have planned a season full of fêtes and balls and teas to honor the returning newlyweds, now that the time abroad has sponged whatever scandal might still cling
….
They disappeared like smoke, M. Bok and M. Dieudonne, though after some time there came a note to the town house,
poste restante
, M. Bok’s note thanking her for her hospitality, regretting that he could not tender his thanks in person. The fine, stiff handwriting, the careful wording; as carefully she tucked the note away, she has it still.

Their flight, if one could call it that, came in the aftermath of Hector’s death, perhaps a too-cautious reaction—could anyone mourn Hector so much as to avenge him? Did anyone mourn Hector at all?—but there is so much of that affair that she does not know, will never know. Javier has never explained precisely how Hector met his end, or by whom, though apparently there was some sort of investigation, and a brief flurry of public nervousness—if a military man should be found dead on the docks, who else might be in peril there?—but all was soon forgotten in the wake of some newer outrage. The obsequies were quite thrilling, all that somber martial music, and a riderless red-plumed horse marching beside the bier; afterward she sat alone in the parlor and drank champagne, quite a quantity in fact, she had a sad headache next day. Both Hector and Isidore gone, the scorpion riding the snake down into hell—ah, cry the jubilee!

Isidore’s funeral was a high church affair—and true to his vow, Benny put not one foot inside the house at Chatiens until that day, a silent beautiful statue throughout the service, the mourners queuing up to make their bows, to press his hand, would they kiss his ring as well? His signet ring…. Later, alone with her in Isidore’s rooms, the bleak drapes furled to show the faintly greening lawns, shed light on the stoic bust of Pompey, the painting of Rachel: Do you fancy this, Belle? You can have the whole place if you want it. Or burn it for kindling. Restless to the window, as if the day had been a year. I shan’t come here again.

Do just as you like, Benny.

And the look he gave her then—
I can’t do “as I like,” but I will do as I will
—was a signpost on the road to come: not the old silly dissipations, but a newer, tainted sort of play. Such as this Edmund Gabriel, the minor son of an extremely minor baronet, Benny picked him up, or won him, at lansquenet in Greece; it suits, the boy is a trinket. And such a universe away from M. Bok as to be a tragedy; but that is a subject Benny never will discuss, though she tried, once, noting very gently that signet ring, but so instant was his snarl—
Am I to have nothing of my own, then?
—that it sent her to full and silent retreat.

It was Christobel who broached it, boarding this very train: not to Benny but to herself, dismayed to watch Benny give the seat that should have been his wife’s to the boy instead, leaving Christobel to sit alone but
He has lost a great deal, Madame,
those great dark eyes filled with knowledge; she sees so much more than she speaks of, Christobel.
Not only Monsigneur his father, but his
—cher ami,
as well.

And that is a suitable replacement?
Together they watched the boy’s sulky displeasure, the seat has too much sun, he must have another, Benny changing with him; the creature is always pouting over something.
You are remarkably accommodating, my dear.

What comforts my husband comforts me, Madame. And you, too,
which in the end is true: it is how she has tolerated the boy’s company while they traveled, though he is always deferential to her, if merely correct to Christobel, who herself is always kind to him; Javier he ignores completely, as if he were a superior sort of servant…. Isobel sighs, now, watching as Benny exchanges the gleaming flask for his journal, an old pearl-gray journal; strange that he would choose to use an artifact that once was Isidore’s, but it seems never far from his hand. See him now, busily scribbling away—

—as the boy beside him gazes out the window at the approaching station, one last loop of the journey to take Benny and Christobel to the town house, with Javier; she herself will change trains and go on, for a fortnight, to Chatiens. It is not so verdant in the autumn, but there is great loveliness all the same, and beauty is its own balm and reason: the sketched line of tree limbs, the bonfires heaped to the sky, the smaller fires that bless by consuming all that is lost, and dead, and broken, leaving in their place a space for clean new growth. She will think of Axel as she walks those paths, planning for the spring’s renewal, the trees she will have pruned, or moved, the avenue of roses she will have refreshed—and the town house bench beneath the willow, the lovers’ bench, she will have that transported as well—

—as the train comes to a steaming stop, Javier rising to consult the compartment conductor, Isobel tucking away her book—“Will you walk out a moment, Benny?”—but he shakes his head, still writing, then gives her a brief, abstracted smile—“I’ll see you in town, Belle”—as Edmund Gabriel looks incuriously past her, out the window to the platform, where, in the crowd, two men, both in dark traveling coats, one wearing small silver spectacles, suddenly catch, and rivet, Isobel’s gaze.

Christobel sees that gaze, sees the men; she nods to Mr. Arrowsmith, then as if by unspoken consent, resumes her seat and begins, lightly, to quiz Edmund Gabriel—Did he prefer the sights in Barcelona to the sights in Rome? Which would he most care to visit again?—as Benjamin continues to write in the journal. Meanwhile Mr. Arrowsmith conducts Isobel off the train, Isobel who is smiling now, a pained and joyful smile as “Monsieur,” with one hand out, to brush, barely touching, the man’s sleeve, his guarded regard turning into a smile of his own as “Why, Madame,” says Rupert, and bows, and takes her hand.

M. Dieudonne smiles just past his shoulder—“You are coming or going, Madame? You have the look of far shores about you”—as Mr. Arrowsmith bows to both the men, then draws Istvan discreetly to one side, while Isobel smiles to M. Bok: “We are just back from abroad…. You look very well, Monsieur,” in the traveling suit well-cut but sober, though with a dandy’s fine detail, and the golden flash of a golden ring. And the little spectacles—they suit him, so studious and keen, and mask what looks a scar beside his left eye. Gazing into his gaze, his face, she sees that he has not changed so much as blossomed, in some subtle but arresting way; then it comes to her, that change: M. Bok is happy.

“You are bound for the city, Monsieur?” she asks, but no, it is mere happenstance, this meeting, they are only passing through en route to “Paris,” says M. Bok. “There is a show he wants to see there, a Guignol show. And you, Madame?”

In answer she unhooks her reticule to show a silver cameo locket-case, one side the marriage portrait, Benjamin and his bride, the other of Benjamin alone. “We have been up and down the continent,” she says, trying for a light tone, “ ‘honey-mooning.’ Now they will take up residence, and I am off to the country.” M. Bok examines the portrait, and smiles still, but more gravely—“Felicitations, Madame”—as a part of her longs to cry out, to say If only—! He and Benny and herself, upon this trip, upon this train—

—but “I as well am wed,” she says, still lightly, “though we have kept it close to the vest, isn’t that the phrase?” His smile changes yet again, in honest pleasure as she relates the circumstance, she and Javier, and “Felicitations indeed,” he says, and bends to reach again for her hand—

—but instead she raises that hand to his cheek, to touch his face as she leans close to brush his lips with hers: like a girl, eyes closed as if in the deep dazzle of summer, the sweetness of the garden, kissing him goodbye—

—as Mr. Arrowsmith and Istvan exchange friendly, impersonal bows, their business concluded in a final way, though Mr. Arrowsmith asks if “You will be performing in town, perhaps? Or in some other place—say, Brussels? Or Paris?” seeming sadly disappointed when the answer is no: “I am off the boards these days,” says Dusan, Istvan, M. Hilaire, a name he lately has begun to wear. “It is a pleasure to be of the audience for once, one can learn a great deal just by watching.”

“Ah. And M. Bok watches with you?”

For answer, M. Hilaire only smiles. There is something new in that smile, something ironical and cold, and Mr. Arrowsmith wonders privately what sort of puppet plays a smile like that may breed. Then Mr. Arrowsmith gives his hand to Rupert, as Istvan leans in to kiss Isobel’s glove, even though she offers her cheek: “Well met, Madame, and safe travels. It is a great pleasure to see you,” though she sees, now, that he is no longer open to her, impregnable inside himself, like a guarded fortress on which the sun shines bright.

She asks, “Will you take up residence in the city again, M. Dieudonne?” and he smiles, as if the name is one of a friend he has forgotten, a friend she now recalls to momentary life: “Indeed no, Madame. We shall be traveling awhile, become mere orphans of the road. Fortunately we know how to be orphans.”

“You two, Monsieur, never can be orphaned.”

He gives her a look that she cannot wholly parse, though humor is a part of it; then “Your trunk has been loaded, my dear,” says Javier, and “I must see to ours,” says M. Bok, as bows are exchanged, as all part as if part of a dance, a last gavotte there on the crowded platform, Isobel boarding her country train, Mr. Arrowsmith returning to the other, Istvan and Rupert crossing to a third—

—as Rupert looks back for just a moment, not to Isobel but to the train Mr. Arrowsmith enters, as if he would glimpse through the window that face from the cameo: watched himself by Christobel whom he does not mark, Christobel who gives him a searching look, as though there is a question she would ask him, this living key to her husband’s icy heart, this cher ami—

—who as swiftly turns away his gaze; it is better not to see, what good could it ever do? They have had their moment, he and Benjamin: alone at the last in the bedchamber, sponging off the crusted blood, tears in his eyes and
Why will you not go with me,
Maître?
Why will you not love me?

It is because I care for you that I do not go.
To dream a dream is one thing, to live it out another; but how could Benjamin know that? He is so terribly young.
And you—you go and be their master, make the bastards bow,
as he took to himself one last time that face, that wounded, open, seeking mouth, then pulled the ring from his finger while Benjamin did the same, signet and intaglio, and watched him walk forever down the hall…. Rupert sighs, a sound unheard in the busy crowd, Istvan taking back from an officious porter a dark calfskin traveling case—“This travels with us”—and lets his gaze go elsewhere, as the train across the platform huffs and churns—

—while aboard, Edmund Gabriel changes his seat yet again, for the distaff side of the train, Benjamin changing with him: and as Benjamin starts to seat himself he sees—his whole body sees—Rupert, there on the platform opposite. A convulsive little motion, his hands go flat against the glass, while Christobel and Edmund share a glance—hers of heartfelt pity, his a puzzled frown—as the train gains greater speed, and pulls away.

Having boarded their compartment, Istvan secures the puppets in their case beneath the seats, as Rupert passes the tickets to the conductor: Paris, yes, and then Lyon, there is another performance Istvan fancies, a troupe of players hardly more than boys, who make quite the ribald spectacle, if the broadsheets can be believed. And after Lyon, Istvan has mentioned Prague, some fellows there who have a puppet opera—What did he name it, to Madame? “Orphans of the road,” yes. Since they left that place they have stayed nowhere very long, the soothing constant of constant motion giving both a chance to rest and to recover—though the London oculist said there was naught to be done, his left eye will have that gray gauze forevermore, bringing Istvan’s shrug—
I’ll see for you
—and his own in answer:
I have my spectacles,
the little spectacles he is never now without, and one good eye to balance out the shadows.

And as they go from place to place, watching what others do, how others’ mecs make mischief or make merry, they have begun to chart their own and subtler spectacle, two men and their two avatars, two puppets called not Feste and Puck but Mr. Pollux and Mr. Castor, who for now make their feints and dashes in private, as Istvan dreams and Rupert writes: The dark one tells stories, and the one with the puppets acts them out, said long ago, years ago, when the stories were always those of others, picked up like jackdaw glitter on the road. Now they will tell a different kind of tale, and he will write it all down, stories not of the mere moment, spent like confetti in drawing rooms or cabarets, but ones that will speak of their own lives, as Benjamin’s journal-poems once spoke to him; plays that, if they are skillful and play hard, may find the way to life, and finally last…. It is his task, and he made for it as he never could be for the management, or the finance, though those have been a kind of making for him, each in its narrow way. They are my toys, too: he said that to Decca, fierce and truthful on the Poppy stairway, Decca who never had liked Marco, or Pan Loudermilk, or any of the puppets, who had somehow—had she?—been arrayed with the General, if Georges could ever be believed: He said there was money, Rupert’s murmur one midnight to Istvan, lying in the London hotel. He said, “Your whoremistress had it from my man.”