The Book of Air and Shadows (26 page)
Read The Book of Air and Shadows Online
Authors: Michael Gruber
“So what else?”
“It could be a grille, in which case we’re screwed.” Seeing her puzzled look, he added, “A Cartan Grille, a literal piece of stiff paper with holes punched in it that reveals the message when you place it over the page. That would mean it’s not a cipher at all. For example, assume the ciphertext I wrote is just random noise, but if you slide a grille over it you can get
RUG
or
USE
or
RUSE
….”
“But surely, if they were using a grille, the ciphered message would look like a normal letter. ‘Dear Mom, having a great time in London, bought a new doublet, baited some bears, wish you were here, love, Dick.’ And the grille would reveal the plaintext: ‘flee, all is discovered.’ I mean the
point
would be to allow the concealed message to pass as innocent, no?”
Crosetti tapped his head in the what-a-jerk gesture. “Of course. Obviously, I’m losing it. Anyway, I’m stumped—I have no idea where to go from here.”
“I rest my case. Like I said, you need a break.”
“You’re right.” He rubbed his face with both hands and then asked, “What day is this?”
“October 14. Why?”
“There’s a Caribbean film festival at BAM, and I wanted to catch
Of Men and Gods
. Maybe if I lose myself in gay Haitian voodoo, I’ll come back to it fresh.”
“That’s a good plan, dear,” said Mary Peg.
Something about her tone and the expression on her face made him pause. He regarded her narrowly: “What?”
“Nothing, hon. I thought that if you didn’t mind I’d take a look at it myself.”
“Hey, knock yourself out!” said Crosetti, with just a trace of smugness. “It’s not a crossword puzzle.”
He was gone for over four hours because after the movie played he ran
into some film freak pals of his and went for coffee and they took the film apart technically and artistically, and he enjoyed the usual amusing and astringent conversation common to such groups, and made a couple of good points and got to talking with a small intense woman who made documentaries, and they exchanged numbers. Crosetti felt like a real person for the first time in what seemed to him a long while. It had been nearly two months since that thing with Rolly started and ended, leaving a peculiar emotional ash. Not love, he now thought. Chemistry, sure, but as his mother had pointed out, in order for chemistry to transmute into connection there had to be reciprocity and a modicum of commitment, which he had certainly not got from Rolly…just a nothingness and that stupid letter, oh, and P.S., bid a heartfelt bye-bye to Albert. It still griped him, not so much as a blow to his self-regard but as an insult to his aesthetics. It was wrong; he would never have written a plot point like that into a screenplay, and since he was a realist sort of auteur, he believed that such an event could not exist in the real world. Thus the subway thoughts of Crosetti.
When he got home, he found Mary Peg in her living room, drinking vodka with a strange man. Crosetti stood in the doorway and stared at his mother, who coolly (rather excessive,
suspicious
, coolness, Crosetti thought) introduced the man as Radeslaw Klim. This person rose to a considerable height, perhaps six inches more than Crosetti’s, and shook hands with a stiff little bow. The man had an intelligent aquiline face, a foreign face, although Crosetti could not have pinned down why it was not an American one. Washed blue eyes looked out through round wire-rimmed glasses, under a great shock of stiff silver hair, which stuck up above his broad forehead like the crest on a centurion’s helmet. He was about the same age as Mary Peg, or a little older, and he was wearing a baggy rust-colored suit with a dark shirt under it, no tie, the suit a cheap one that hung badly on his long slender frame. Despite this, the man had a nearly military bearing, as if he had temporarily misplaced his beautifully tailored uniform.
Crosetti sat in an armchair and his mother supplied him with a glass of iced vodka, a substance for which he found an unfamiliar but urgent
need. After he’d drunk a slug he looked challengingly at Mary Peg, who said blandly, “Mr. Klim is Fanny’s friend. I asked him to come by and take a look at your cipher. Since you were stuck.”
“Uh-huh,” said the son.
“Yes,” said Klim. “I have looked, examined it somewhat. As you have guessed, it is a polyalphabetic substitution cipher and also is true that it is not a simple Vigenère. That is of course elementary.” He had a slight accent that reminded Crosetti of Fanny’s; his mien was gentle and scholarly enough to at least partially assuage Crosetti’s nascent resentment.
“So what is it?” Crosetti asked sharply.
“I believe it is a running key,” said Klim. “From a book of some kind. You understand how these work? The key is of very long extent compared to the plaintext, so the Kasiski-Kerckhoff Method is of no use.”
“Like a book code?”
“No, this is not the same thing. A book code is a code. The codetext is, let us say, 14, 7, 6, and that means you go to
World Almanac
or some such and look at page 14, line 7, word 6. Or you can use letters if you like, the fourth letter, the tenth letter. A running key uses a book, the same, but uses the book text as a continuous key. These are not so secure as people think, however.”
“Why not? It’s similar to a onetime pad.”
Klim shook his head. “Not so. Onetime pad has very high entropy, because the letters are randomly generated. That is, given one letter of your key you have no idea which of the other twenty-six will follow. Whereas, in a running key based on any English text, let us say, if you see Q, what is next letter for sure?”
“U.”
“Exactly. Low entropy, as I say. How we break these is we run probable plaintext alongside ciphertext until we see something intelligible.”
“What do you mean by ‘probable plaintext’?”
“Oh, words always appearing in English text.
The, and, this
, and so on and so forth. We run against ciphertext and suppose we find once that
the
gives us
ing
or
shi
when we work back through the tableau? We use such
clues to discover more English words in key. Eventually we recognize actual source of running key, I mean, the book it comes from, in which case we have completely broken cipher. It is not very complex, but we would need a computer, or else large squads of intelligent ladies.” Here he smiled, showing small stained teeth, and his glasses glinted. Crosetti got the impression that Klim had at one time supervised such squads.
“Would mine do?” asked Crosetti. “My PC, not my squads of ladies.”
“Yes, if networked to others, which can be done. There are numbers of people in the world who like cracking ciphers for amusement and they will let one borrow computer cycles they are not using, late at night for example, and is always late at night somewheres. I can set this up if you like. Also, we are fortunate this is cipher from the year 1610.”
“Why so?”
“Because there are many less, many
fewer
, printed texts that could be used as running key source. In fact, taking what your mother has informed me of the character of these people, I would venture that the text is almost certainly the English Bible. So, shall we begin?”
“Now?”
“Yes. Is there objection?”
“Well, it’s kind of late,” said Crosetti.
“Does not matter. I sleep very little.”
Mary Peg said, “I’ve offered Radeslaw Patty’s old room.”
Crosetti finished his vodka and suppressed the usual shudder. He stood up and said, “Well, you seem to have arranged everything, Mom. I guess I’ll just go to bed.”
In the morning,
Crosetti woke not to the buzz of his alarm but to the brisk knock and then the vigorous shoulder shaking of his mother. He blinked at her. “What?”
“You have to read this.” She rustled the
New York Times
at him, opened at the pages devoted to local crime, corruption, and celebrity.
English Professor Found Murdered
in Columbia Faculty Housing
This headline brought him up to full wakefulness. He rubbed the blur from his eyes and read the article, then read it again. It was a short one, the police being their usual closemouthed selves, but the reporter had used the word
torture
, and that was enough to start Crosetti’s belly fluttering.
“Call Patty,” he said.
“I already did,” said Mary Peg, “but I got voice mail. She’ll call back. What do you think?”
“It doesn’t look great. He disappears right after I sell him the manuscript, he’s probably in England for a couple of months, maybe with Carolyn, maybe not, and then he comes back here and someone tortures him to death. Maybe the play manuscript really exists and he found out where it was and someone found out he knew and tortured him to get him to give it up.”
“Albert, that’s a
movie
. Things like that don’t happen to English professors in real life.”
“Then why was he tortured and killed? Not for his ATM password.”
“Maybe the mother of another silly boy he cheated took her revenge. From what we know about his character, he may have been mixed up in any number of sleazy deals.”
“Mom, believe me, movie or not, that’s what went down. I need to get up.”
This was the signal for his mother to leave, and she did. Crosetti in the shower found his thoughts floating back to Rolly and the plot of his movie and the possibility that she could actually be the villainess of the piece, Brigid O’Shaughnessy as played by Mary Astor in
The Maltese Falcon
. His mother was wrong. Not only was life like a movie, movies were
why
life was like it was. Movies taught people how to behave, how to be a man, how to be a woman, what was funny and what was horrid.
The people who made them had no idea of this, they were just trying to make money, but it was so.
And here they were in the
Falcon
, his next favorite after
Chinatown
, which was essentially a reimagining of the same movie, updated for the ’70s, and why did he like movies about bad girls?
Bonnie and Clyde
, naturally, and
La Femme Nikita
and dozens more. He wondered what part he was playing, the dead Miles Archer, or the dead sea captain in the backstory, or Sam Spade.
You killed Miles and you’re going over for it.
And,
I hope they don’t hang you, precious, by that sweet neck. Yes, angel, I’m gonna send you over.
He had nearly the whole script by heart and now he said those lines to the showerhead with the Bogart hissing lisp and wondered whether, if it ever came to it, he could send Carolyn Rolly over, if she’d really helped kill Bulstrode. Or maybe he would be her sap. The mere imagination of it made his heart race. He turned the temperature of the water down a notch and let it run onto his heated face.
T
HE
F
IRST
C
IPHERED
L
ETTER
My Lord It has now passed two weekes and some daies since I left your howse and have had passing success as I heere shal tell. Upon a Friday I left my lodging at the Vine in Bishopsgate in company with Mr Wales, who hath lain with mee all this tyme & a sore tryall hath it been, he beyng a verey coxcombe cracking sot & oft hazarded the safetie of oure enterpryse with hys hintes & vauntes in tap-room. Oft have I had to carrie hym to oure chamber with a buffett & threat; but when sober is craven & doth then as hee is bid under menace. Whilst not in cuppes, he hath instructed me divers popish tricks and sayinges as they doe in theyre masses & superstitious shewes, so that at need I may pass for one of theyre number.
Of the lodgeres heere the greater parte be drovers & some plaiers; of these last, half of them demi-papists & the rest plain damned atheists, scarce a Christian man among them. Soe we stride down Bishopsgate, hym pale & asweat from drinke & wants to stop heere & about for more sacke, but I doe prevent hym saying mind on oure business Mr Wales & I see feare well-marked in his face. Soe we arrive at the Swan in Leadenhalle Street where he saies W.S. frequently lieth. Mr Wales saies his fancie is to take roomes here and about, when he is not being tabled at some greate house. Formerly he dwelt near Silver Street but no longer & formerly he went every day to the Globe or Black-Friers play-howse but now he withdraweth som from those stewes as he hath grown rich off it, the bawd. A low company at the Swan, players punks decoy-gamesters & other rogues & Waley inquiring of the tapster is told Mr W.S. is up-stayres in a leased chamber, his habit seemingly to lay there the morning at his papers. So Waley do send a wench up to say there is a kinsman of his to see hym: which wase mee. Soon
comes he in the room a man scannt-bearded a middling height bald-pated a little fat in a good doublet dead-spaniard coloured & hath the looke of a mercer. Mr Waley doth make us acquainted, Will Shakespur here is your cosen of Warwick, Dick Bracegirdle.
Saith he then it must be through your mother we are cosens for never was there such a name in Warwickshire & I say yes my mother was Arden born. At that he smyles & clapps me upon my backe & carries me to the table & calls for my pleasoure & the pot-boy bringeth us ale, but Mr Waley calls for canary though he wast not asked & calls some varlets he knows & a trull over & proffers them from his jack of wine. Now W.S. speakes me direct but I can not make out a word in three that he sayes, so strange are his accentes; seeing this he makes a halt saying thou wast not Warwick-bred & I say nay but born in London and passed my youth in Titchfield & he says he hast been oft at Titchfield a-visiting my lord of Southhampton & this he says in as plain a Hampshire voice as could have ben mine uncle Matthew, which amaz’d me much. But after I bethought me, he hath ben a playere, ’tis his arte to ape the speache of anie man.
Next we spake of our families and found that his dam was bred ancientlie from Sir Walter Arden of Park Hall as soe wase mine but his hath descent through Thomas that gentlemans eldest son not Richard as mine was & this contenteth hym much & I tell howe my grand-sire wase hanged for papistrie but they sayde traisoun & hee looketh grave sayinge aye mine nuncle was served soe in the olde quenes tyme. Soe wee further converse, hym demanding of me my storie & I tell hym it pretty much in truth, of my lyfe as a boy and prentice in the foundrie, & of the grete gonnes & the Dutch warres; nor have I ne’er met a man so content to heare another man out in fulle; for men chiefly love to tell of them selves & paint them selves out in finer colours than wast in lyfe; but hym not. Herein I spake but the trewth for Mr Piggott saith if wouldst
tell a grete lye, guard it close with a thousand trew tales, so that it shalbe passed amongst theyre number. Bye now Mr Wales hath drunk a pint & more of beste canary & wase drunk withal & commenced to rail at W.S. sayinge he hath not employment these manie weekes with players less skilled than he uzed in his roome & W.S. saith nay, hath not Mr Burbadge manie tymes warned thee? If thou attend the play-house as full o’canary as yon butt so you stumble and misremember your lines thou shalt lose thy place; and thou hast soe done; and thou hast indeed lost place, as wase promised; & I can do naught for thee, but here’s an angelet for thee thou wast a goode Portia once. Yet Mr Wales spurns the coin; saith he, thou vain scut Ile see thee hangd & broke & e’en nowe are the snares set for thee that will & then I kick him in his ankle-bone & he cry out & draw or tries to & I serve hym a blow on’s heade with a stone-jack & down goes he in blodd. Now those friends he lately wined make to start affray with me & I stand to draw but W.S. calls sacke & safron cakes for the table & speakes so sweetlie & jestinglie to these low fellowes that they are assuaged & he has a wench & pot-boy to carry off Mr Wales to a settle & payeth alle & then he carries me out of that place saying let us goe to a more quiet howse for I wishe to speake further with thee.
Soe down Bishopsgate we walke, then on Cornhill & West Cheap toward Paul’s & again he quaeres mee upon my lyfe & I doe as best I am able, recalling manie thinges I have forgot & when I tell how I wase late a smuckler he halts & hath me saye agen that worde which he sware he never before heard & writes it that moment with a wad penselle in a littel booke he carries & seems as well-pleazed as if he found a shillinge in the myre of the waye. Arrive at the sign of the Mer-mayde on Friday Street hard bye Paul’s & were manie there that knew W.S. & greeted hym with affectioun & after greeting alle moste courteouslie he brought me to a corner bye the fyre that was I thinke his accustomed place: for the pot-boy brought hym smalle beere without the asking & a jack for
mee as well & he presses mee agen to speake of my lyfe especially that at sea: & when he heard I wase on the Sea Adventurer & was wracked upon Bermoothes Isle he was much excited & plaisure shon on his face & takes up his little booke again & wrote much in it as I spake. He desired to know of the Carribans, theyre character & customes & did they eat the fleshe of men, & I sware hym I never met a Carriban in my lyfe, there are none in the Bermoothes: but I spake much of how we builded boates and scaped oure prison of that Isle & sayled to Virginia safe & of the Indians which the Englishe there living saye doe eat mens fleshe & are verie fierce salvages. He sayde he had reade accountes of this before now; but it were best to heere it from lips of one who was there & again questioned me upon the ship-wracke, viz: how the mariners comported & how the passengares of quality, did they waile & crie oute in feare of the present perils & I tell hym how oure boatswaine cursed Governour Thom. Gates when he ventured upon the deck in the midst of the storm & chased hym down a hatch-waye with a rope’s ende; for which the Admiral cried he should be whipped but was not for the ship strook upon the rock soon after.
Now as I tolde this tayle, W.S. calls to some who came in or were there alreadie: come & heere this tayle, this is my cosen who hath been to the New World & hath ben ship-wracked &c. Soon had we a goode company about us, sitting & standing. Some did not beleeve me thinking my tale a mere fardel of lyes such as mariners tell; yet W.S. spake up to these sayeing nay the man speakes fayre for there are no dragons nor monsters, nor yet water-spoutes, nor anie fantastique thinge, but onlie such perrils as shippes meet in theyre voyages; further saith he, I have read an accounte of the verie wrack of which he speakes & agrees in all particulares.
Thus was I justified before that assemblie. After mye tale was done, they sit about & talk, & this talk such as I nevere before heard & it is hard to recall for it is the jesting sorte that sticks not to the minde.
Or not my minde. It was verie bawdy, all prickes & cuntes, but disguized in othere & innocente speeche, & they said not a worde but another would twist that word into one lyke it & yet again & again, so that I never knew what they meant. This they account Witt: & one of these Mr Johnson can shew Witt in Latin & Greek & did so but few there comprehended his meaninges: yet laughed all the same & rated hym for a dull pedant. He is an other maker of wicked plaies thought greate by these wretches & seconde onlie to W.S.: except in his owne reckoninges first. A prowd conceited man & I thinke an arrant papiste & rayles much gainst the reformed faith & preacheres. W.S. now boastes of me that I wase in Flanderes fighting Don Spainiard & Mr Johnson saies he too was & quaeres me close what battels & seiges was I in & under what commander & when. Soe I answer hym; but when he findeth I was with the gonnes, he says pish that is not soldiers woork but mere cartage & dunnage & tells how he trayled his pyke before Flushinge & Zutfen & it was clare it ben a tale they all had hearde before & they mocketh hym & make witt of his pyke & sayde he had pricked more Flanders maydes than Spainiards with it; by which I thinke they meant his privy member. W.S. listeneth mainlie but when he speaketh all give hym attencioun. Thus, Mr Johnson vaunting his witte largelie with many Latin tagges & drinking largelie too & hadde a meate pye & bye & bye he lifts haunch & letts a great blaste of winde & W.S. upon the instant saies, so speakes a Batchelor of Artes, list well & learne; and all laugh, even Mr Johnson. But I did not understand the jest.
Houres so passed I think til it grew neare darke without & W.S. saith to me Dick I have business at Black-Fryares playe-howse wilt come with me for I wish to speake privilie to you more. So I go with him & he asks of me what I will now for my trade, shal I goe back to sea? Quoth I nay I am done with it having been wracked soe & done with my travells nor have I taste anie more for warre, but to have some place whereat I could be sure of my meate & my bed a-nights & a goode fyre & make my fortune; for I had it in mynde to wed
one daie. He saies what canst doe to earne thy bread Dick, besydes warre & smuckling & making of cannones? I sayde I wase clever with numbers & mought fynde worke as surveyoure of landes an I could fynde me a maistre. But here we come to the playe-howse after the play has done & the audience still comes forth, many rich-dressed in furs and brocades but also the common sorte & we must press through a croude of litters carriers horses servants groomes &c. who await. So through the greate room all ablaze with candels but one is snuffing them all ready & we pass to a smale room behinde the stage where are some men, one all in black velvet verie fine with paint still on’s face; and two otheres apparent marchants & one little scriveninge sorte; & two stout fellowes armed with hangers & of these one hath no eares & t’other but one eie. By name, as I learned, the first, Dick Burbage, playere; John Hemmynge, a sharer in the Playeres company; Henry Watkins, a sharer in the Housekeeping company; Nicholas Pusey, who kept the purse of the King’s Men Company & the accompte booke. Spade & Wyatt are the two men-at-armes, Spade hath the one eye. Save the laste pair, all these stood quarrelling calling each-other rogues cheateres &c.
W.S., comeing amongst them all, saith what betides gentlemen, why this affray? And soe the tale: of the monies payd each night. Players sharers must have such portion, Housekeeper sharers yet another & further fees out of the nightes purse variously figured. Mr Pusey hath a booke in which all monies are wrote down, yet I o’erlookinge it see it is done poorlie in the olde fashioun as it were some pettie fishmonger & not a greate enterpryse such as this theatre: for wickednesse yieldeth up much proffit. W.S. saith good Mr Pusey fetch thee thy board and jetones & we will see the figuring done before oure eies, are we not alle honest fellowes who can cut a figure with the beste; and made them smyle with this witte & off Mr Pusey goes. Now I inquire of W.S. what are the shares of each & how figured & I studie the accomptes booke laid open & look close at the scratchinges men maketh when they use compters & board to keep
theyre talleyes & I see the faulte of castynge-off he hath made. Mr Pusey not retourning, Mr Burbage shouts for Spade to fetch him & whilst he is off I take my wad penselle and doe the needefull sums & divisiouns into partes. Soe returneth Spade with Mr Pusey in tow carrying his board with the compters dropping out of his sleaves; he hath been at drinke & now too fuddled to make sence of his papiers: which no man could any way make sence of even if sober. I spake up then upon the matter & shew them my reckoninges & discourse upon my methodes. Which were a wonder to them & I see W.S. smyling upon me: for he doates upon clevernesse in anie thinge. Further I saye gentlemen it is vain to quarrell upon who warrantes what sum, for with this accomptinge there be no waye under heaven you can saie what gaine you hath. Further, though I saye naught gainst this gentleman, who anie waye I knowe not, yet as thinges stand anie man could rob you all at will nor would you ever knowe of it. It is as if you walked blind-folde down Shoreditch at mid-night with full purses held in youre fingeres & expect not to have ’em snatched. Soe some further talke & twas agreed that I should be hyred to re-caste the accompte bookes in the Italian style with double-entreys & have charge of the divisioun of the shares: here W.S. saith he will stand bond for me as I am hys cosen.
After this W.S. carreys me to supper at the Mer-mayde & verie merrey with hys friendes as I have sayde before & later to bed in chamberes neare hys owne in a howse he leases neare to Black-Fryres & whilst theyre I laughed oute lowde & he quares why & I saye you intended Batchelour of Fartes, for hee hath broke winde then. He smileth, sayeing wee will make a witt of you Dick, one daye wilt thou catch the jest at the instant & not further in the weeke. To bed thereafter & methinkes I have done well enow for I am in the verie bosome of these wicked villeynes, which I think doth advance greatlie oure venture. With alle honour & my humble duty to yr. Lordship & may God protect you & blesse oure enterprizes, from London this Friday the 10
th
Januarye 1610 Richard Bracegirdle