Julian Comstock: A Story of 22nd-Century America (23 page)

"Not Dutch, Lymon, but French. The language was spoken here for centuries, and still is, in places."

Apparently Lymon had believed there were only two kinds of human speech, American and Foreign, and he was dismayed by the news that languages were prolific, often coming packaged one per country. "Just when I learn to write a language they begin to multiply like rabbits! I tell you, Adam, there's a catch to everything. The world is as meanly rigged as that Lucky Mug of Private Langers."

"English will suit in most circumstances, unless you travel abroad."

"I've traveled far enough, I thank you—this is as foreign a country as I care to see, even if it is America."

I begged him once more to be quiet, as Calyxa finished her singing. She ignored the applause, stepped down from the stage with an air of calm satisfaction, and headed back to her table. I was consumed by the need to attract her attention, and I did this by standing up abruptly as she passed, nearly knocking my dinner plate onto the floor, and exclaiming in a choked voice, "Calyxa!"

I may have spoken too loudly; for she flinched, and there was a lull in the conversation in the tavern, as if some of the patrons expected violence to follow.

"Do I know you?" she asked, when she had recovered her composure.

"We met at Easter. I was in the Cathedral where you performed, before Dutch artillery closed it up. Don't you remember? I hurt my head!"

"Oh," she said, smiling faintly, and by this reaction causing the other customers to relax their vigilance, "the soldier with the small injury. Did you find your regiment?"

"Yes, I did—thank you very much."

"You're welcome," she said, and walked on.

Naturally I had not expected her to prolong the conversation, or to ignore her friends on my behalf. Nevertheless this response was a disappointment.

"She blew you off pretty quick," Lymon Pugh said, laughing to himself.

"You're wasting your time here, Adam. That type of woman don't make herself available on a moment's notice. Come to the Shade Tree, and your luck will change."

"I won't." Not when my quarry was so close.

"Well, suit yourself. I have a schedule to keep."

Lymon Pugh stood up, not as steadily as he might have, and after some exploration found the door of the tavern, and left.

I felt conspicuous sitting alone at a table when everyone else in the tavern seemed to have arrived with a party of friends; but I suppressed my uneasiness, and ordered an entire second meal, which I did not plan to eat, simply to keep the waitress from frowning at me.

Calyxa continued to sit with her companions. Other singers or musicians took the stage from time to time, apparently by arrangement with the management. None was as talented as Calyxa, and the vulgarity of their singing was not adulterated with any kind of Innocence, Primal or otherwise. She herself talked amiably, as it seemed to me, with her friends, who were a mixed group of men and women, all as young as Calyxa herself—my age, that is, or only slightly older. The females among them shared Calyxa's simple taste in clothing, along with a certain inattention to the finer points of hairdressing and such feminine arts. The men of the group took this charming roughness to another level entirely, seeming to pride themselves on their tattered pants and hempen shirts. Several of them wore woolen caps, despite the heat of the evening, as if they needed something available to tug or pull low at dramatic moments in the conversation. Their gestures were dramatic, their voices were curt and insistent, and their opinions, though I could make out only a few words, were vehement and complex, almost to the point of Philosophy.

It occurred to me in a dismaying moment that Calyxa might have a male friend or even a husband among the crowd. Tragically, I knew so little about her! I set about studying her, in the hope that I could glean a few facts by observation.

I noticed that she glanced occasionally at the tavern's door, and that whenever she did this an expression of anxiety darkened her features. But that was all that happened for an hour or so, and I could make no sense of it, and I had begun to despair of ever passing another word with her, when a series of unexpected events brought us together in a surprising way.

The waitress who served my table appeared to be on friendly terms with Calyxa. They put their heads together now and then to exchange words. After one of these exchanges an expression of profound concern once more overcame Calyxa, and she nodded solemnly at what ever news the waitress had delivered.

And dire news it must have been; for Calyxa, although she remained at the table, dropped out of the conversation swirling around her, and seemed lost in the most sobering kind of thoughts. Several times she called the waitress back, and they conferred again; and on one of these occasions they both looked at me in a pointed fashion. But I couldn't deduce the significance of any of these maneuvers.

That they had
some
 significance I did not doubt, for before long the same waitress returned to my table, and she pulled out the chair Lymon Pugh had left vacant, and sat in it.

I was surprised by this bold move on her part. Fortunately the waitress took the commanding role in the talk that followed. "You're a soldier," she said, in a tone that was brisk but not unfriendly.

I agreed that I was.

"And you have some interest in Calyxa Blake?"

Finally I had learned her surname!—admittedly, at second hand. I wondered if Calyxa Blake had mistaken my intentions, and had communicated her apprehension to the waitress. "Only the most benevolent interest," I said sincerely. "I was impressed with her singing, when she sang at one of the enormous churches of this city, last Easter. After that I spoke to her, but only briefly. I was injured at the time. But she was kind to me. I want to thank her for that—well, I
have
 thanked her for it, in fact—and as much as I would like to speak further with, uh, Miss Blake," hoping I was right about the
Miss,
"I would never force my attention on her. If I upset her with my clumsy greeting, please tell her I meant nothing by it, except to mark my pleasurable surprise at recognizing her."

That was a pretty speech, though extemporaneous, and I was proud of it.

The waitress sat and examined me with her eyes, displaying no reaction.

Then she asked for the second time, "You're a soldier?"

"Yes, a soldier. I was drafted away from my home, which is in Athabaska—"

"Does that mean you carry a pistol? They say all you soldiers do."

I was off-duty, and not in uniform, but it was standard practice for an American soldier in these parts to keep his pistol with him at all times. My pistol was strapped under the waist of my shirt, where it wasn't easily visible, because I didn't want to alarm anyone, or provoke any unnecessary confrontation; but it was within easy reach. I nodded. "Does that frighten her?"

"No."

"Does it frighten you, then?"

She almost smiled. "A pistol in hands such as yours doesn't frighten me, no. What did you say your name was?"

"Adam Hazzard."

"Stay here, Adam Hazzard."

I nodded in mute if bewildered consent. After servicing the handful of customers who had begun to shout in an aggrieved manner for her attention, the friendly waitress returned to Calyxa's table, and there was more fervid whispering between the two of them, and I tried not to blush at the unusual attention they paid me.

Not fifteen minutes passed, during which Calyxa stared at the door as if she expected the dev il himself to burst in, before the waitress came to my table and whispered, "She'll meet you upstairs, Adam Hazzard."

I was afraid that my interest in Calyxa had been too broadly interpreted, and that an assignation had been set up—but of course Calyxa was not the type of female who would "make herself available at a moment's notice." So I was confused by the suggested arrangement; but the waitress evinced some urgency about the matter, and the grave expression on Calyxa's face seemed to confirm the need for haste; and I nodded and said, "Whereabouts, upstairs?"

"Second landing. Third door to the right. Don't run right up there, though. Wait a moment or two after I leave. Don't be conspicuous about it."

I agreed to all these conditions. The next few minutes passed slowly; then I stood up, affecting a nonchalance that might have been a shade too theatrical, judging by the way Calyxa rolled her eyes from her place at the adjoining table. But that couldn't be helped. Shortly thereafter I was up the dimly-lit stairs, and I found the appointed room and let myself inside.

It was a small room, containing only a chair, a few boxes loosely stuffed with straw packing, a barrel marked salt fish (empty), and a rusty hurricane lamp, which I lit up. The room smelled of moist, mildewed wood. A single grimy window overlooked the crowded stalls and torch-lit shops of Guy Street. From the window I could see a little of the night sky, which was very dark and shot through with distant flashes of lightning; the wind had a gustiness that flapped all the Guy Street awnings, and I guessed a storm was imminent. Certainly the air in the city was humid enough for it—and swel-teringly hot, especially in this upstairs chamber. I perched on one of the boxes, thinking Calyxa might prefer the chair, and waited for her to arrive, trying not to perspire.

She opened the door not ten minutes later. The reader may imagine the excitement and the curiosity her visit aroused in me. Her hair was a skein of ebony knitwork in the light from the hall. She put her hands on her hips and regarded me.

"Evangelica thinks you're harmless," she said. "
Are
 you harmless?"

I guessed "Evangelica" was the name of the waitress. "Well, I'm not dangerous, if that's what you mean."

"Adam Hazzard—that's your name?"

I nodded. "And you're Calyxa Blake."

"Adam Hazzard, I don't know who you are—you're only a loose soldier to me—but I need a favor, and Evangelica thinks you might be willing to help, without wanting too much in return."

"Of course I'll help, what ever your situation, and without demanding anything at all in return."

"Western boy. Just as Evangelica said. How old are you?"

"Nineteen," I said, exaggerating by less than a month.

"Do you know how to use the pistol you carry around with you?"

"As a soldier I'm supposed to, and I do."

"Have you ever used it? To shoot at someone, I mean?"

"I've shot at many people, Miss Blake, all of them Dutchmen, with my Pittsburgh rifle; and hit some of them, I don't doubt. As for my pistol, it's only shot targets to date, but I understand the principle and I'm not a stranger to the practice. Do you mean for me to shoot someone? That's a tall order ... not that I'm backing down ... but an explanation would be welcome."

"You can have one, if there's time." She glanced around the narrow room.

"Take the chair," I suggested, "if you want to sit."

"I do want to sit, but I want to look out the window while I do it." She dragged the chair in that direction. She didn't need help—Calyxa was a sturdy girl, evidently accustomed to performing such tasks on her own hook. She sat with her head turned, so that she could watch the window while we talked, putting her neck in profile. "This is awkward," she said.

"You can sit on a box if you'd prefer it."

"I mean the conversation."

"Well, that's because we hardly know each other ... though I've thought of you often since Easter."

"Have you? Why me?"

"What do you mean?"

"Of all the women in the choir, what set you onto me? Most of the soldiers I've met are more interested in whores than choristers."

"To be honest, I can't say. You seemed—exceptional." I could hardly speak for blushing.

"How childish. But never mind." She scanned the street again. "I don't see them ... though in this murkiness it's hard to tell..."

"Who are you expecting?"

"Some men who mean to harm me."

"In that case I guarantee you every protection in my power! Who are these villains?"

"My brothers," she said.

We talked for most of an hour more, alone in that airless chamber.
What she told me—with a frankness I found admirable, if surprising—was that her parents had died when she was just three years old, and that she had been raised by her brothers, Job and Utty (Uther) Blake, who were bush runners.
³⁶

Calyxa was not of much use to them, as a female, and her brothers had never been patient or kind toward her. Her only relief from their autocracy was a four-year period when Job and Utty were sent to prison, and she was installed in a charitable Church School in Quebec City, where she learned to read and write. The school was not a paradise, but she had thrived on three regular meals a day and had enjoyed at least some access to the world of learning. Her innate curiosity and liveliness had been engaged, and she had fought bitterly against her return to the custody of her paroled siblings.

But the law was stern, and she was eventually given back to them. To her horror, they no longer considered her a useless encumbrance, but had worked out a scheme by which she could be sold to a Montreal brothel, or, failing that, bartered to some other guerilla band in exchange for considerations.

That did not suit her plans, and she resolved to escape before the transaction could be consummated. Fortunately her brothers still thought of her as a child, at least in her mental and spiritual faculties, and assumed they could bully her into submission. They were wrong. Calyxa had grown up considerably during the time they languished in prison. She was not just clever enough to outwit them, she was wise enough to disguise herself as meek, and lull her captors into equanimity, until an opportunity for escape presented itself. When Job and Utty left her alone in the wilderness cabin from which they ran their autumn trap lines—trusting in the isolation of the place, and a few stern threats, to keep her docile in their absence—she recognized an opportunity and took it.

She packed up what little food was available, along with a compass she had stolen from Utty, and set out for Montreal. She spoke reluctantly of that grueling, lonely journey, and would only say that she had arrived in the city exhausted and starving. A few nights spent on the streets convinced her she needed to support herself in better style, and that was when she took up singing—at first on sidewalks, for pennies, and then in establishments such as the Thirsty Boot. She had learned singing from the clerics at the residential school, and she had a natural aptitude for the work.