The Mercury Waltz (11 page)

“Like
le zoo mécanique,
” says Tilde unexpectedly. “In Paris they have that in a park. A wooden monkey sings songs, and there is a lion, and a beautiful horse with wings, called Pégase—”

—both turning to her then, Istvan with half a smile, “Why, Mab—” but the thought is suspended by a knock at the door,
tck-tck-tck,
and inside slips Luc in blue scarf and slouch cap, crossing at once to Istvan, seeking hand seeking his—but then, marking Rupert, dropping instead to his coat pocket to take out “The post,” he says. “And twine, here is the twine you asked for, M’sieur Stefan,” the wrong kind as it happens but his gaze is so tragic and so sweet that Istvan tosses the twine to the table without comment, then feeds him a cool segment of pear before sifting through the letters: one for Rupert from the bank, a somewhat shocking bill from the haberdasher’s, and one from “Lucy-Belle,” he notes with pleasure. “A nice long one.” He slits it open with a thumbnail, settling stageside to read as Luc perches beside him, one cold hand nestling underneath his thigh; while Rupert reads the letter from Herr Robb, concerning the street on which the Mercury Theatre resides, an unnamed gentleman having purchased the whole block for purposes of “‘Civic betterment’?” aloud with a frown, as “Puss says,” Istvan looking up from the blotted sheaf—

—but again there is knocking, sharp and brief, Tilde to the door to open on a fair young man in natty black plaid suit, bowler hat doffed “To see Mr. Hilaire,” says Haden with a pleasantly counterfeit smile. “And Mr. Bok.”

“We’re closed, there is no playing now—”

“I know that,” louder, his voice carrying—

—and Luc startling as a dog does at thunder, a quivering kiss and then slipping out the sideway, his scarf dropped coiled on the stage, Istvan bemused to watch him go as “Gentlemen,“ Haden angling past glaring Tilde, “greetings.” He gives a sunny nod to Istvan. “We’ve met, haven’t we.”

Rupert steps forward without a smile—“I’ve not met you”—as Haden advances, hand out and “My name is Haden St.-Mary,” with consummate courtesy, bearing Rupert’s hard inquiring grip. “Mr. Bok, it’s a pleasure. And a pleasure to finally visit, I’m very curious about your shows.“

“Then buy a ticket,” Tilde like a spitting cat beside the door and “Softly,” Rupert softly to her. “But she’s got the right of it, we
are
closed. What brings you here, Mr. St.-Mary?”

“I’d say my own good taste,” Haden taking his time to answer, taking in the measure of the space, this false world constructed to tell its own kind of truth; and of Hilaire the gambler, too, as if seeing him more clearly in this other gamesroom of artifice and command, puppet strings and veiled faces, beside his partner Mr. Bok, with his proprietor’s air and a hand like iron. “But it’s in all the papers, everyone’s talking of the Mercury. Those shows of the fox and the king, and the two men lovering—”

“‘Lovering,’” says Istvan. “Is that what they call it.”

“They do. And that Seraphim in the
Solon
can’t say enough about your artistry,” as he and Istvan stand now face-to-face, Haden head-cocked and half-smiling, Istvan gazing
en garde
through his lashes; when they speak it is as if the speech is somehow doubled, what is said and what is not, like a bout of fencing, or actors trading lines onstage. “I can testify myself, you’re a rare gamesman—a real friend of Tyke.”

“Tyche. And not a friend, only another acolyte—”

“Why, fuck no! A favorite! The last time I saw you—”

“—a lowly, groundling acolyte. In fact—” but whatever else he means to say is interrupted by yet another knock, like some double-door farce that Fairgrieve might mount for here comes Seraphim himself, a smiling Frédéric Blum so freshly barbered he aches of steel and lime, wondering if he might “Interrogate those actors? You said that I should call,” stepping eagerly past Tilde to pull back, abashed: “Oh, but no, you are engaged. My apologies, I’ll come back later—”

“Not at all,” says Istvan, nimble to draw him in, “it’s your master we were just discussing, Herr Blum. This fellow here, M. St.-Mary, knows all about him,” as the two young men turn to one another, as Frédéric puts out his hand, and Haden takes it—

—to hold as Frédéric holds to him, full lips half-parted, brown gaze fixed, a moment tense and rapt and timeless until at last Haden tugs his hand away, and Frédéric’s face flames to the forehead: and Istvan shares a glance with Rupert, who stands, now, beside him, the four placed as if in figure for a dance, or a fray. “Well-met, gentlemen.”

“Yes,” says Frédéric, as if hardly listening to himself, “well-met, that is, you’re a theatre man as well, Mr. St.-Mary? But I’ve not seen you at the shows—that is—”

“M. St.-Mary,” says Istvan pleasantly, “is a devotee of many amusements,” as Haden runs a hand across his mouth and “I am,” says Haden; he makes a crooked smile, a visible effort. “And I plan to be here tonight, hoping to see Seraphim—and you,” to Frédéric. “You know him.”

“No one knows him,” says Rupert wryly. “He is anonymous.”

“But you work beside him,” says Haden, as Frédéric’s cheek grows pale now in place of scarlet. “I’ve been to the newspaper office, several times, and they all say Blum is the one I must speak to—”

“Indeed you two ought speak,” Istvan smiling and very genial, as Pan Loudermilk once was genial, as Mr. Pollux can be genial when he pleases. “And would that it could be here! But we have much to do today, gentlemen, so much that we must postpone the pleasure of hosting you until this evening, our young lady,” with a nod for glowering Tilde, “will gladly admit you
gratis
when you come. In the meantime,” turning both as one, propelling hands on their shoulders like a fond schoolmaster’s, or a broom to tumbling puppies, “we bid you a very good day,” while Haden’s gaze finds Frédéric’s again and “A bock,” he says, “have a bock with me now. Will you?”

Frédéric tries to answer, clears his throat, tries again. “It’s hardly noon.”

“It’s like a meal,” says Haden, as they walk together blindly to the door, the momentary brightness of the light outside, the silence as it closes, and “Spy,” says Tilde darkly, as “St.-Mary?” says Rupert; he takes the banker’s letter once more from his breast pocket. “I’ve heard of him, the intelligencer. Is that who that was?”

“The kit,” says Istvan. He looks at the blue scarf on the stage, then at Tilde, her gauging gaze between them both and “Be elsewhere,” he says, not sharply but with weight, Rupert’s nod in agreement to send her stoic for her hat and market bag, silent out into the street as “He plays,” Istvan says. “On several wheels, apparently.”

“Like your roulette wheel, is it, or the cards? Is that what brought him here?”

“I’ve seen him at the tables, but who knows why he came. He took away a pretty bonus, though…. Here,” holding out the letter from Lucy, “let Puss sweeten your mood. And there’s a postscript just for you,” seating himself at his worktable, the banker’s letter placed before him as Rupert reads through Lucy’s sheets, the girlish, careful hand: thanking Istvan for his letter sent, his advice about some problem on the boards,
I used the linseed paste, and it worked just as you said it would
; asking after Rupert; and giving fresh news of the Blackbird, respectable and safe, now, beneath the sheltering wing of Achille Guerlain,
I’m the only one who still
says “Pinky,”
and more popular than ever,
They line the street up and down for the Singing Baby’s Stories—I’ve got that old baby working now, recall her? She cries a treat!
And lining up as well for “Van,” changed from Pan as Mickey now is Mick, a fine partner for herself and Pimm and their ever-changing family of child actors since
We’ve no little ones of our own, still, though Pimm stays hopeful.
She, too, is hopeful, for continued good work, for their own prospects, for a visit perhaps someday
To see for ourselves that fine
palais
of yours! And most of all to see the both of you again—we miss you sorely. Until then, believe me ever your friend and faithful, LUCY PIMM.

And at the bottom of the last sheet of flimsy, the postscript’s note of a note arrived in answer to her own:
She hadn’t much to say, just that she calls herself Mrs. Mattison now, a widow, and that all goes well at the Rose and Poppy,
with a little calling card enclosed, on one side a brownish photograph, a young reclining Venus on a familiar velvet chaise, and on the other an address,
Pleasant Entertainments for Fine Gentlemen
and “‘Mrs. Mattison,’ Jesu,” says Rupert slowly, as if the name saddens him, his gaze past the letter to Istvan, who wields his planing knife and a hard stick of wood, working one against the other. “And the Rose and Poppy…. Do you think of her, ever?”

Istvan shakes his head, hair loose to make a curtain at his face. “Ag—She’s dead.”

“She had nothing easy.”

“She made nothing easy. Do you know, we were living on the vents when she was born, my mother and I? The laundry vents, to keep from freezing of a night.” His gaze is cold, aimed down at the wood. “And then the little baby came, smaller than Marco, yeah? ‘
Volim Te,
’ our mother used to sing that to make her sleep, ‘I Love You,’ but she couldn’t sing, she had a voice like a fucking crow’s! So she taught it to me…. I’m weary of the past, let the dead bury their dead,” tossing down the stick and knife to take up instead Mr. Pollux, pulling the silk from the silent face, making him march as “It’s brigands for you, vagabond! until we finally spin our fortune’s wheel. Unless Monsieur
auteur
will give us another tale to tell them,” as again the speech is doubled, the things they say to one another, the things they mean and “It’s not for them I do it,” Rupert says, coming to stand behind him, “it never was. It was always—”

“‘We are two,’” in soft singsong, Mr. Pollux making a graceful bow, “‘we need none other’—”

“Excepting,” with a little frown, “your Juliet boy,” but “Be easy, I won’t have him much longer,” and to please him Istvan then takes up the banker’s letter, skimming it with a careless eye as “You see?” Rupert frowning now in a different way. “No kind of ‘civic betterment’ can ever be better for us. The fucking ground beneath our feet,” one fist knocking on the worktable; his spectacles flash as he shakes his head. “Sold and bought, without even a by-your-leave—”

“And we’ll worry why? We own the building, let them keep the dirt…. I hope Puss does come calling, she and her sturdy Pimm, and that Mickey-Mick—I still owe him a toss at the Golden Calf—and may be he’ll bring along his ‘Van,’” in shrug as a shadow marks his face, another kind of curtain, Mr. Pollux turning now in aimless circles, old jaunty twist of hair still black in his buttonhole—

—until Rupert reaches to catch and stay those restless hands, raise them to his lips as “You made them, messire,” he says, “all of them. Lucy and Mickey, too,” kissing the hard palms and clever fingers, Istvan’s gaze held as well until “
Volim te,
” in Istvan’s softest murmur, hair a curtain to veil them both, enclose them mouth to mouth as Mr. Pollux lies stilled on the table before them, painted face resting on the banker’s letter, the bank’s crest above his forehead like a little golden crown.

The sun has sunk behind Rottermond Square, the shoemaker’s shop and broadsheet house are shut tight, but the café is still open, and the bar blares its invitation of drink and dice and vice. The line for the Mercury has already sprung up, a sidewalk garden grown various and strange: here a clutch of Virgo girls in their flattop bonnets and ankle skirts made for swift walking; there the young men who run messages at Herr Robb’s bank, and their young women in parti-colored radium silks; some excited devotees of the notorious, among them the well-dressed fellowship who frequent the Cemetery; the street priest, scowling with his shako and tracts; two lace-veiled society ladies and their stolid guards, the veils to keep the ladies secret and the guards to keep them safe; and more than a few alert and serious citizens who see in these shows a clearing mirror of the unsettled times, from the timidly adventurous readers of the
Clarion
to the legionnaires of the arts who read nothing but the
Daily Solon,
including a loud if tiny contingent of the Literary Leopards, hailing him when they see “Frédéric!” in his very best suit and a brand-new derby hat—and elbowing one to the other when a gentleman with a pointedly pointed beard and gorgeous gold walking stick joins the queue: the great Edgar Rue, though it will not do to seem anything but politely welcoming, if not entirely blasé.

Frédéric spares less than half a glance for Edgar Rue, though at any other time he would be eager for a conversation or to broker an interview. But now his attention is elsewhere, gaze cast again and again down the sidewalk, into the shadows, though perhaps Mr. St.-Mary will not come tonight after all. He seems to lead a bold and dashing sort of life—drinking beer at odd hours, no fixed place of employ, vague about his profession, though surely his hands are not a laborer’s, no, nor a scrivener’s (Frédéric knows that look, crabbed and always inky)—but strong and supple, graceful as a conjuror’s, to match those conjuror’s eyes…. He did say, more than once, that he would come—

—and here he is, Haden swiftly approaching in a cloud of brandy and a suit of such eye-popping plaid that it seems to make its own light in the dark: his gaze at once finding Frédéric’s, another light in the dark, his own grin of careless greeting somehow become just a nervous, truncated little nod at Frédéric’s immediate, unguarded, choirboy’s smile: well, he is a chorister, he said so in that tavern, hands clasped around his half-drunk bock. Singing in a church, why not, he looks an angel from the altar, with that skin, and those brown eyes like something out of a poem; he reads poems, he said that, too—as Haden, chewing his lip, comes to stand beside Frédéric, vastly annoying a Leopard waiting behind—“Hey, fellow, the line starts back there!”—who retreats prudently to silence at a cut look from those feral eyes.

Now the Mercury doors open, though not everyone in line can be accommodated, this evening’s lucky ticket holders passed through by a watchful Tilde in her evening uniform of faded blue wool dress and old-fashioned ribbon snood that tames, somewhat, the wild intransigence of her hair. She nods at Frédéric, gives Haden a dismissive sniff—“Alley door’s better for you”—that he ignores past a hasty glare as she passes the two of them ticketless into the darkness, where they take the last seats in the next-to-last row, on the aisle, together.