The Troupe (20 page)

Then he seemed to grow resigned, and the look faded and he slumped back in his chair. “But I ain’t gonna do that. I know it’s not your fault.”

George exhaled. “Thank God.”

“I don’t know how it happened to you. Stroke of bad luck, maybe. But you’re here in our laps and we’ve got to figure out what to do about you.”

“Isn’t there some kind of way you can remove it?”

“There are ways,” said Silenus. He produced another bottle of wine from beneath his desk, and stripped its top and expertly popped the cork with his knife. “Most of them involve dying. That gets it out of you, but it’s not the favorable choice.”

“Dying?” cried George. “No, I don’t think it would be!”

“Right, it’s simple, direct, but favorable? Not so much,” Silenus said. He drank his glass and poured another, then wiped sweat from his forehead and said, “Don’t know why I chose wine for this fucking sitdown. News like this is more appropriate for brandy or whisky.” He squinted at George and said, “You know, you’ve caused me a great deal of reading, boy.”

“I have?”

“Yes. I’ve been locked up in here reading everything I can since
you told me that story of yours.” He gestured to the piles of books and papers around him. “Partially to see if I can get that thing out of you. And as of now it doesn’t seem like I can. Just one more fucking problem in a long line of them. But mostly I’ve been doing research on my own personal lineage. You know what that means, don’t you?”

“Your family,” said George.

“Right. Because, see, the First Song is a very unstable thing. Its fragments have remarkable power, and they’ve almost all been lying dormant for eons. Who the hell knows what’ll happen if some jake comes up and gives one a poke? But some people can handle it without hurting themselves or anyone else. They’re rare as all hell, but once they were found these people were watched over until they established a firm, direct bloodline, one specifically bred to handle the First Song.
My
bloodline,” said Silenus. “Do you understand what I’m getting at?”

George had a nasty feeling about the direction the conversation was taking, but still shook his head.

“What I am saying is that only me or my kin can bear the song,” said Silenus. “It’s almost
always
passed from parent to child. So that makes you one big fucking aberration. I’ve been digging through family records for days—which I hate doing, because that’s some boring reading—but I cannot find one fucking iota of evidence that my family ever came anywhere near Ohio. Not at any age. But I can still see some of the Silenus family resemblance in you. The masculine features I sport—by which I mean a face as ugly as sin—are pretty predominant throughout my particular clan, no offense to you, of course.” He picked up a piece of paper and affixed a pair of gold-rimmed reading spectacles to his nose. “Anyone in your family with the name of Crookson, by any chance? Or Atonyne? Those are some offshoots, some of which were in the general Midwest.”

George barely heard him. He’d gone white, and knew what was about to happen. But he whispered, “No.”

“Hm. I figured that would’ve been the best shot. Any relatives
from the Mediterranean at all? There’s still some kin I have there, though they’re distant as all hell.”

George did not answer. He bowed his head and slowly put the cup of tea down beside his chair. Silenus kept listing relations for some time, never really expecting a response. Finally he glanced up and saw George’s face.

“What’s eating you, kid?” he asked.

George blinked and sat up a little straighter in his chair. He felt a mad, wild rage rumbling somewhere in him, and he realized that all this time he’d delayed telling Silenus who he was not because he was afraid, but because he was
angry
at him. He was furious that he’d come all this way to serve as no more than a curious irritation in this man’s life, and he’d been waiting for some reason to forgive him. Yet so far he’d found none.

“If you’re going to speak, speak,” said Silenus. “We ain’t got all day.”

“You really don’t remember,” said George. “You don’t remember anything, do you.”

“Remember?” said Silenus. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Her name was Alice Carole,” said George through gritted teeth. “Does that mean anything to you?”

Stanley sat up in his seat by the bay window and looked back and forth between Silenus and George, confused. “No,” said Silenus. “No, it doesn’t. And kindly give me some more information before using that fucking tone with me.”

“She was my mother. She was eighteen years old when she saw you, back when you first came to Rinton, which you seem to remember now because of your song, but not because of her,” said George. “She saw your show, and she fell under whatever glamour it is you cast in it. And then she started disappearing. Running off to see you, Harry, every night. I know. My grandmother told me all about it. And when you were done with her you left her behind, and you forgot about her. And she never crossed your mind again, did she? Did she?”

Silenus did not answer. His face was completely still and inscrutable.

“You’ve done all this research, but you never remembered her,” said George. “Never thought about my mother, who died bearing me. Never thought about Rinton and what you left behind there. I guess she just wasn’t that memorable to you. Sometimes I wish I’d never tried to follow you. I wish I’d never warned you about the hotel. I don’t know what I expected you to be when I came looking, but it wasn’t this. Not by a long shot, it wasn’t this.”

George expected Silenus to break down then. The revelation of an unknown son was surely enough to shake up any man, and George was looking forward to seeing it. But Silenus did not look astonished at all; he merely stared into George with his face fixed in a look of unpleasant surprise. Then he softly growled, “Get out.”

“What?” said George.

“I said get out,” said Silenus. He stood and crossed the room and grabbed George by the upper arm. “I want you out of this office. Get out. Right now!” He hauled George up and dragged him to the door, and bodily threw him out and slammed the door behind him.

George sat on the ground in the darkened hallway, stunned. That was not at all the reaction he’d been expecting.

The door flew open again. Silenus stood there, glaring down at him. “And do not even
think
about fucking leaving! You got me?”

“I got you,” stammered George.

“Good!” Then he slammed the door once more.

George did not get up for some time. Several people in nearby hotel rooms stuck their heads out of the door, looking to see what all the commotion was about. Most of them frowned at George, thinking him some drunken adolescent, and returned to their rooms. One did not, though, and walked down the hallway toward him. When they passed before a lamp he saw it was Colette.

He did not wait for her. He stood up and walked away to his room. Then he pulled out his suitcase, flung it open, and began throwing his clothes inside.

He heard her walk to the doorway. “George?” she said. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” he said. “I’m packing.”

“Packing? What, you’re leaving?”

“Yes. Yes, Colette, I am leaving. I am leaving right now.”

“But why?”

“Because,” he said as he stuffed in one of his many coats, “there is nothing keeping me here. Because this whole thing has turned into yet another disappointment. It’s just one disappointment after another, isn’t it? Only this one’s so much more dangerous than all the others.”

“What’s so disappointing?” she asked.

“Pick something!” he shouted. “Anything! I mean, I’m… I’m
owed
at least some respect, aren’t I? Just a little, right? No matter what I am, or what I’m carrying. I mean, would it kill him to show me just a little courtesy?”

“Ah,” she said. “You’re talking about Harry.”

“Yes. Yes, I’m talking about Harry. That is exactly what I am…
fucking
talking about.” He laughed madly. Even though his months in vaudeville had broadened his vocabulary, his upbringing still made it difficult for him to use any of it.

“Listen, George,” she said, “Harry is plenty abrasive. You don’t have to tell me that. I know it probably more than anyone. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t listen to him.”

George gave a hollow laugh and began piling in his socks.

“If he does something, there’s usually a reason for it,” she said. “And he asked you to stay. I heard that, at least. So I think you should hear him out before you do anything rash.”

“I think I have heard quite enough from him.”

“But it won’t hurt to hear a little more.”

George angrily whirled around. He had intended to make some passionate outburst, but so far he’d avoided looking at Colette; now that he did, the sight of her standing in his room in her nightgown (with her glorious, gleaming shoulders bared) gave him pause.

“Yes?” she said.

He composed himself. “I don’t have to be here. Not where I’m in so much danger.”

Colette sighed. “He showed you the picture show, did he?”

“Yes.”

“It doesn’t exactly reflect what the troupe is like, George. It’s very impressive and intimidating, sure, but the day-to-day isn’t half so dangerous, or righteous.”

“I don’t care. I could… I could be pulling down a hundred a week somewhere else. More. On the circuit or in the legitimate,” he said. “I could just walk away, couldn’t I? I mean, couldn’t I?”

“Are you asking me if you’re good, George?” she asked.

As soon as she said it he realized this was exactly what he wanted to know, and that this desire was outrageously petty. “Well, I guess so,” he said.

“You are good, George,” she said. “You’re a very good pianist. Probably the best I’ve ever played with.”

“Really?”

“Really. And we’re better for having you with us. And Harry knows that. He knows you have something very valuable to give us. Otherwise he wouldn’t have asked you to stay.”

“But it’s the most frustrating thing in the world, dealing with him! Everything is delayed, everything is secret, and you’re given nothing. For so long, I’ve had nothing! I just want to be given a
little bit
. Do you know what that’s like, to have so little?”

“Yes,” said Colette quietly. “I know what that’s like.”

George was not sure what to say. Something in the way she said it suggested she knew that feeling far more than he did.

“What could he have done to make you so upset, anyway?” she
asked. “I mean, the picture show is kind of neat, but not much more. What did he say to you?”

“Oh,” said George. “I… I don’t think I can tell you.”

She smiled at him. “You can tell me,” she said. “I’ve heard him say plenty of ridiculous things before.”

George looked at her uncertainly. He had told his secret to almost no one else, but having Colette smile at him and compliment him made him much more open to the idea now. “Well… you can’t tell anyone else.”

“I won’t,” she said. “I promise. I’m good at keeping secrets.”

He sighed and sat down on his bed. “Do you want to know why I caught up with you all at the theater?” he said. “Why I’d been following you?”

“If you want to tell me.”

“It’s because Harry is… well, he’s my father.”

Her smile vanished. She stared at him with her mouth hanging open. “He’s
what
?”

“My father,” said George. “I’m his son.” He then recounted the story of his birth and how he’d hoped to catch up to Silenus and his troupe.

When he was done she sat still for some time, and she whispered, “You’re his
child
?”

“His son,” said George. He did not much like being referred to as Silenus’s child, especially by Colette. “I only found out about it last summer. I’ve been looking for him ever since.”

Her face was difficult to read. At first he thought he saw horror there, and could not understand it, but then the horror slowly melted away to be replaced by a chilly rage. “He has a
child
,” she said.

“Son,” George said again.

But Colette did not seem to hear him. She stood up straight, her hands in fists by her sides, and looked down at him. “Why didn’t you tell me that?” she said, as if he’d been maliciously keeping a secret from her.

“What?”

“How could you both hide this from me, from everyone?”

George was irritated by this about-face. “I thought the Golden Rule was to mind your own business. And what business is this of yours?”

This did little to dampen her temper. She marched outside, and George stuck his head out the door to watch. She walked up to Silenus’s huge black door and began pounding on it, crying, “A child! A child, Harry! A damn child!” Once she’d finished her rant she stood outside his door and waited, arms still at her sides and her chest heaving. People opened their doors again to complain about the racket, but one steely glance from Colette sent them hurrying back into their rooms.

Yet Silenus’s door did not open for her. She gave the door a solid kick, then grimaced and limped to her room without a look back at George. He watched her go, and wondered if Franny and Kingsley would also be outraged by the news of his parentage.

George stood in the hall. He was no longer sure what he wanted to do. Colette had mostly defused his anger, whether she’d meant to or not. And, now that he thought about it, the middle of the night during a freezing storm wasn’t the best time to go out, especially if you had no idea where you were going. It would not really hurt to hear what Silenus had to say.

And when he did he would not try to persuade Silenus to keep him on. He did not know what his chances were out there among the wolves, but he would risk it rather than remain here, where he was not wanted.

Finally Silenus’s door opened. He walked out to the hallway, looked at George and said, “Well. Come in.”

He did not wait to see if George was coming. He simply walked back inside. George thought for a moment and followed.

Stanley was still sitting beneath the bay window, though he was now on the opposite side. He was white with shock and trembling very slightly, and his eyes flew to George when he entered. When Silenus sat behind his desk and turned around George almost gasped: he had been struck on the side of his face, and his left eye was swelling up horribly until his squint was uglier than ever. George looked to Stanley, as he was the only one who could have done it, but he found no explanation there.