The Mercury Waltz (23 page)

And Benjamin, eyes gleaming, emerges like the last actor to his cue, to reach for Rupert panting beneath his hood, draw off that hood and snowy cloak as if he, they, had no reason for any haste or hurry, need do nothing at all but stand face-to-face as “
Maître,
” says Benjamin, as calm and pale as the Snow Youth. “Come with me,” to the door and the man stationed there, Emory who conducts them swiftly to a waiting cab, standing guard beside that private dark wherein Benjamin leans forward to Rupert, now as still as a man in a waking dream, and “You called me,” says Benjamin, “and I’ve come.”

When the pair of constables enter the Mercury at last, they find Istvan in immaculate coat and tie, every inch the business owner ready to make complaint, many complaints, Tilde sniveling at his side as “There, there,” Istvan taking from her a bloody handkerchief, prop handkerchief, prop blood, but the constables cannot know that, as they do not know her tears are counterfeit, who would have thought that Mab was such an actress? and “My young niece,” says Istvan, with ferocious dignity, “was overrun by that rabble, did you mark that, officers? Not to mention the damage to our building,” waving as fiercely at the ruined seats and smashed sconce, detritus and dead Snow Youth on his tumbledown peak. “Who’s going to pay for all this?—There, there, dear, tell the constables who hurt you,” patting Tilde on the neck, her side-cut gaze to ask plainly
Where is Sir?
and his as plain to answer
I don’t know.

And past this little drama another play plays out, Haden and Frédéric alone together backstage, a step or two, a world apart as “Here,” Haden handing to Frédéric his flask, “take a drink, you’re white as snow,” his gaze turned away as if he cannot bear to look Frédéric in the eye, Frédéric whose lips and face feel oddly, inexplicably large; he will not note until later the fairly spectacular swelling, now he only feels the pain, great pain and then great surprise as “Seraphim,” says Haden, taking back his flask uncapped, “they’re after you; Eig is after you. No, don’t bother,” as if Frédéric, speechless, will speak to deny, “just hear what I tell you. He’s not sure who you are, yet, but he knows he wants to put you in one of those rooms. So don’t go back to the newspaper, and don’t go home—”

“Where must I go, then?”

“Don’t go anywhere. Stay here,” gesturing backhand at the riot’s aftermath. “You’re a man of the theatre, an’t you?” He shrugs off Rupert’s coat much the worse for the fray—torn lapels, someone else’s blood—and reaches for his own martial plaid, trying to comb back his hair all a-tangle; to Frédéric he looks a god of misrule, bruised and ungovernable, predator, protector, Frédéric who past his aching heart murmurs “You know all about me, then,” and “I thought I did,” Haden answers, full of mortal longing that he tries to drown, flask to his lips, tasting there like the rime of fresh desire the salt and warmth of Frédéric’s swollen mouth: he would like to kill whoever it was struck that face, will go for Eig himself if he puts out one hand to harm, so “Stay put,” harsh as he turns away, to the door where the constables are finally leaving, one stopping to examine him, as if Haden is somehow known to him or should be: “Who’re you?” and “That’s Mr. Jacks,” says Istvan, “of the
Daily Intelligencer.
He came to review the show.”

“Terrible thing, all this,” says Haden, taking up the cue. “People simply can’t control themselves.”

“Terrible,” echoes Istvan, reaching to shake his hand. “I do thank you for all your assistance, Mr. Jacks, and await our future mutual endeavors,” with an extra squeeze irrepressible, leading them out to the steps and the square, eyeing the dispersing crowd for some glimpse of Rupert, where the fuck can Mouse have got to? while Haden, as if it soothes him, deftly regroups his little army, in their vests and flash finery, whooping at the action just past—

“Did you see me, Haden? That Mr. Pinch, he thought he had me!”

“Did you see
me,
Haden? I squared a commodore right in the ballocks, he won’t be fucking Missus tonight!”

—as at Istvan’s elbow something pale appears, a ghost’s face, a ghost’s voice to breathe “M’sieur?” for it is Luc, wrapped in a tailcoat of white Italian wool much too heavy for the heat, as heavy with buttons and bright braid, Luc so insubstantial he might well be a spirit, something once beautiful now barely present in the world. “M’sieur, remember me? I came to see your new show.”

And Istvan turning, shocked, to reach for him, take him into his arms, it is like gathering a pile of sticks—“
Bébé,
what’s happened?”—but “He says,” says Luc, “I’m not to leave the room…. I’m just like you, now, M’sieur,” with waxwork eyes and a heartbreak smile; one of his teeth is missing, a small incisor, it makes him look even younger, another kind of Snow Youth caught in what he cannot escape. “A friend to great men, just like you.”

Now Haden looms behind, the other boys behind him: “Luc! Luc, where the fuck have you been?” Luc flinching back from his voice, then leaning forward in Istvan’s arms, not kissing but there to be kissed; Istvan recalling the Goatherd’s goatish bed,
I want so much more than this from you!
as their lips meet with a taste like decay. Then Luc is gone from his arms, stumbling off as Haden trails him, the boys chasing after—

—while Frédéric stands at the doorway, watching it all as if it is a sort of play, for that is right, isn’t it, for Seraphim the critic, the one who only watches from a distance?—himself watched by Tilde who has tugged off the snood, taken up her stoic’s broom and pan and “You,” she says through the dimness, “come help me…. You smacked that fool who broke our lamps. Good work.”

“He was a lout,” says Frédéric through lips becoming difficult to move. He looks around at all the breakage and damage, then at the backstage chairs and table untouched and unscathed, teacups still primly in place: and he laughs aloud in pain and sheer bewilderment, as a kind of offering to the gods of the boards, the unreal world alive enough to cause real blood and suffering. Reaching, wincing—his knuckles are skinned quite raw, how did that happen?—he drags and tugs at the velvet curtain, so very much heavier than it looks, he neatly stacks the broken boards, he works in silence beside silent Tilde: and seeing then what no one else seems to, the rounding curve of her body in the too-tight dress, she is to have a child, surely, this girl!

But he does not speak of it to her, or to Istvan when he reappears, to ask Tilde with a glance a question she answers with a shake of the head; he only continues to work, putting to rights what can be put to rights, the three of them in another kind of stagecraft until the night bends toward dawn and Istvan goes alone and brooding up the stairs, Tilde to follow after pointing out to Frédéric that two chairs pushed together will make a bed of sorts, a bed he pads with his folded coat and a length of stained batting he finds stuffed behind some scenery slats. When Rupert returns, in earliest morning, Frédéric does not waken at the noise of the door or of his footsteps, does not see the great trouble in his eyes, but sleeps on, deeply, fully, the way a tired traveler sleeps when, after long journeys, he finds himself safely at home. When he wakes at last it is to the united gaze of the puppets on their hooks, Pollux and Castor uncovered with their equerries beside them, the four regarding him as calmly as if he has always been there.

“The Snow Youth”

Contributed by Seraphim

As the new theatre columnist of
The Muses’ Journal,
it is a privilege to make my first review that of the Mercury Theatre’s single performance of
The Snow Youth
, surely the most highly anticipated opening of the season. It was a tale of real delicacy and sorrowful wisdom, as Misters Castor and Pollux met an enchanted Youth of the mountains, a play unfortunately—or was it intentionally?—disrupted in its playing by a battle between brutish oafs and valiant defenders of the arts, many of whom were called before the magistrates to answer charges of public disorder; several were also sent to hospital with various injuries. The
Globe
claims to have printed the names of all those present, though I myself, certainly present, did not find my own name on that list, so do approach what you read in the
Globe
, readers, with due skepticism.

When the performance had perforce ended, I spent the remainder of that night in entreaty of the Muses themselves, who claimed to be more than gratified by the spectacle: “We make of men’s lives our stories,” they said to me, “and watch as men do the same with ours. Think of Aeschylus! Think of Sophocles! And these smaller heroes, these puppets, are very pleasing to us, as they are completely of the theatre, completely unreal, and so the most authentic actors of all.”

“But if you favor them so, why are all against them?” I asked. “The Mercury has been damaged from within and attacked from without—and denounced by the Morals Commission itself!”

And the Muses laughed! Their laughter is like a shower of poured gold and a blast of thunder, quite beautiful and terrible; it went on and on. I do not mind admitting, readers, that I was frightened to hear them laugh this way! Finally they said, “We have not heard of any such commission, our business is concerned only with truth. But do not fear for Mr. Castor and Mr. Pollux, for they are already in the stars.”

And then as the sun rose, the Muses departed. Some might have called our congress merely a dream, but readers, as I perambulated home past the train station, whom did I see but fleet Mercury! surely a sign that the Mercury Theatre will continue its puppet plays that, one day, this city will find fame in presenting, as the truly modern moment takes hold, and those currently in power pass away like a show that closes for lack of an audience. If the Mercury does not win the theatrical competition—those “in the know” suggest that the Cleopatra will bear away that palm—we shall be content to remember whose favor lasts longer, for the Muses always script the final act.

CHRISTOBEL DE METZ’S JOURNAL

9 September 18
—

Dearest sister, B. has just left me. He came to this bedchamber with its simpering paintings and overcrowded dressing table, to stand before me in simple black and amber, his eyes, his smile glowing like a flame; he might himself have been a portrait, one made by a master’s hand.

You must be happy for me,
he said,
very happy, tonight.

I’ll be very happy if the evening should please you,
I said, for I knew already that the competition’s prize shall be announced this night. All week Frau de Vries has been in her element, inflating the guest list to Lucullan length, preparing her menu of peacock stuffed and served with spread tails, her fountains of wine—literal fountains! The woman is beyond absurd. And all the while pestering me, like an impatient child, to learn who is the winner; she does not believe me when I say I do not know, that B. has said nothing of the performances we watched. In truth, they were all mediocre—the Athenaeum’s was in rhyme, endless couplets set to a wan Schubertian tinkling, with actors posturing in romantic
tableaux
; the Cleopatra’s was a version of
Hamlet
remarkable only for the fact that its Ophelia and its Gertrude were the same actress, a doughy campaigner in yellow wig and then white, apparently Mrs. Cowtan herself:
There’s rue for you, and here’s some for me,
indeed. The theatre called the Palace was my own favorite, for its show, though a silly classical hodgepodge, had plenty of energy, with its zestful young actresses, and the use of a puppet reminding of the Mercury and its players—whom I have not seen perform, here, as their show closed so quickly, and they declined with a curious wit my invitation:
We shall hope instead to see Mme de Metz at another beggars’ ball.
I recall the other such, that singular night, those puppets jousting over Letty van Symans’ pearl necklace, the one called Puck pulling at the ribbons of my gown…. Our betrothal night.

It was at the Palace that Herr Eig approached me, like a Puritan in his collar, his “conversation” a new form of interrogation: Had I been to the Park again? Did I not notice the fine stand of orange blossoms in the lobby? (Of course I had, loathing the smell as I do.) How was my infant faring?—after asking to see the miniature I wore, and staring at Isau’s face as if he would memorize him; Herr Eig is truly a constable at heart. And an obtuse heart it is, for he apparently did not understand either the performance we had just watched, or the larger purposes of theatre itself:
It is less instructive, even, than novel-reading. For what tale can ever better life, Madame? Or offer its surprises?

I’m surprised you bother to attend, if you feel so.

It is my duty to attend, but my great pleasure to see you again. I would wish it might be your pleasure as well,
while he stared at me like one of the masks on the wall, Mirth and Drama, when he has neither to offer, what can the man have meant?

And it was at the Palace that I heard Herr de Vries and Herr Banek. During the intermission, as all else hurried to the balcony to catch the air—it is still so unnaturally hot, though all week there has been rain, fretful rain that only worsens the heat it should dispel—I thought to stay within, and spare myself the continuing company of Herr Eig. But as I passed the alcove stairway, I heard Herr Banek speak of B.
—

—neither what one expects nor can condone. His mother was half-Jewess, wasn’t she? Might that be useful?

Useful to whom? And by whom do you think to replace him? He is difficult, yes, but his name is of tremendous value—

His father’s name; these are new days, now. What Eig suggests—

What of the name de Vries? Have you been reading your own editorials, Tibor? And Eig is my servant, he ought not have “suggestions”—Why, dear Madame! First a lark, now a padding little cat,
with an instant change to his expression that would have done any player proud, a sharkish stare become a lordly smile he might have given to his own wife: as if I am as empty-headed, as if one might speak of anything before me, speak infamously of my husband and his welfare, and that I would neither listen nor understand! I fairly trembled, I was so angry, but like a player myself I made a smile, I made believe that I had heard nothing of import at all. When at last we returned to the townhouse, I followed B. into his bedchamber—Emory was surprised to see me—and told him immediately everything that I had heard.

Yet B. was neither angry nor surprised, in fact he seemed somewhat amused:
They remember to sneer at my poor dead mother, yet forget that I’m my father’s son. The old man knew Guy de Vries, knew him very well,
and he patted his journal and smiled, a smile that recalled his father’s, your father; I was always somewhat frightened of M. Isidore, though he was never unkind to me.
You did well to tell me, but it’s late now. Stop fretting, and go to bed.

But abed or not, I could not sleep, I lay awake until just before sunrise, thinking of the cool green paths of the Park, and the Lady’s Garden, until it seemed an Eden meant for me to go and walk there, to find at least an hour’s peace. As it was still dark I thought to take a maidservant, but when the girl and I trod the stairs, what did we see but that young servant of Herr de Vries, being carried out by the majordomo: he looked quite entirely drunk, his head hung down like a bright flower on a broken stem.

Such a pity!
I whispered to the maid.
Such a young man, to be so overcome by vice!
But the maid only stared at me, and said nothing. Servants, one finds, can be extremely hard of heart.

That sight drained away all pleasure in the excursion. Halfway to the Park I bid the driver turn back again to the townhouse, as dawn rose dull on the constables and quarreling vagrants in stained aprons, the roiling, dirty whirl of pigeons, the heaped rubbish at the corners of the convoluted streets, where one can take a hasty turn and be lost for hours among buildings seemingly built not by plan but sheer accretion, as if no one cared that a bank stands between a book vendor’s and a bicyclette repair, or a lancing dentist’s atop a dingy milk-and-tea shop. All that my eyes met in that hectic light made me long to leave this place and return to the peace and order of Chatiens.

But I did not expect to have my wish so speedily granted, nor to have heard—how could I?—what B. has said this hour. There before the dressing table, I modeled jewels to suit his eye, the London emeralds, saying how I hoped the evening should please him but
This evening,
he said,
I mean at last to please myself.

And he smiled, such a smile as could have melted a heart of stone: it made me smile in return as I guessed aloud the source of his pleasure—that he had made up his mind that the competition prize should go to the Mercury—but
Not the Mercury,
B. said,
its owner. And the Garden of Eden is to be his prize…. You shall be the one to tell them, at the banquet, you’ll attend and preside in my stead. And then you’ll go home, to your child—Emory will see to things. You may leave whenever you wish, as soon as you wish. Tomorrow.

Why, leave—how wonderful! But you—

I shall stay.

Stay?
In the hallway, servants passed to and fro; I heard Frau de Vries call out, pettishly, I heard a door slam.
You mean to stay here, in this city?

Here, in the Garden.
B. took my hand, and held it to his cheek; his palm was warm, the emeralds hung heavy at my wrist.
You shall be cared for, never fear—you are my wife, the child is my heir, nothing will ever alter that. And I shall see you both, from time to time. Perhaps you’ll come to one of our shows.
As he spoke, B. watched my eyes, to see if I understood him; and I recalled again the night of our betrothal, your announcement to those avid beggars as B. stood between us, gripping our hands and staring straight ahead, rigid as if he were in pain; was this moment that one’s anodyne, for him? Are there words for such moments?

It’s been so long, Christobel, and I have worked so hard. If you can, be happy for me, now.

I can.
My voice was weak, I spoke again
. I am. With all my heart, I am.

Dear Belle,
he said.

Then he instructed me what I must do and say at the banquet, and left as the
vendeuse
arrived to make some last adjustments to my gown—a black bodice and narrow skirt, with a stiff black fantail and ruff, very modern—and I chose amongst the gloves, your gloves, my gloves of black Alençon
lace, so dainty against the emeralds’ hard sparkle.
Deck her in emeralds, make her your queen….
I am his queen still, his wife and helpmeet, and Isau, Isidore, is his son and heir, so let them stare however they may, tonight, and gossip themselves breathless in the days to follow.
You
feared no scandal, nor does B.; nor shall I. I, too, am de Metz. And if Frau de Vries says “blind betty” to me again, I shall ask her there before them all how her husband’s servant fares, that pretty boy who drinks too much, whom he visits at dawn in his dressing-gown.