Under the Poppy (35 page)

Now she swirls the pot, pours a jot more tea and “It was Mickey really,” says Lucy, “he gave me the idea. ‘Instead of making the dragon move,’ he says, ‘why don’t we move the castle?’ and so we fixed the backdrops to hike back-and-forth, while Didier and the others bobbed our serpent up-and-down—”

“And out front it looked a treat, like he was roamin’ the countryside, looking to devour. That little Mickey’s a real actor, isn’t he?”

“To the manner born,” says another voice, Istvan’s voice as he steps into the pantry, unshaven in shirtsleeves and stiff black slippers; he politely swallows a yawn. “The boy will teach Shakespeare a thing or two before he’s done…. A thousand pardons for the intrusion, don’t get up—and greetings to you, Mr. Pimm—”

“Sir, your servant,” says Pimm with a formal air, setting down his cup.

“—but I’m hunting a particular planing-knife, that I thought was in my kit but isn’t. The one with the warped handle, have you got it, Puss?” to set her rummaging—“Did you look on the long table? My workbox?”—until Pimm rises, somewhat stiffly, bows more stiffly still and “I’d best be off,” to Lucy. “Sunday?” as she nods, his nod to Istvan—“Good day, sir”—and gone, the door closed rather emphatically behind and “He’s not averse to me, is he?” Istvan asks, to bring Lucy’s dimples: “May be just a trifle. He knows how thick we are together, you and I.”

“Like sibs,” with a quick squeeze round her shoulders. “Mind, I’ve got my eye on him. As an elder brother should.—Oh thank you, darling,” as she produces the warped little planing knife, the thing is older than the two of them put together, yet its blade still fresh as new after a sharpening: Toledo steel, the finest in the world. Applying the knife to a little apple from the bowl, scoring the peel in one long red rind as “I’ve a mind to tinker with some wormwood,” he says, with another yawn, as Lucy regards him with folded arms: “Out late, weren’t you? At that silly Calf.”

“Now you do sound like my sister,” with less enthusiasm, though still he smiles. “Not to worry, I think Jardin was a bit annoyed. I shan’t be asked back, perhaps,” and “Good,” she says frankly, pouring the last of the tea for him. “I don’t care a fig for Jardin—I hear he’s a rare cheapjack—but it’s never been the right place for you.”

“What place is?” half joking, but the question is real: and no one of whom to ask it, no troupe now, no traveling at all—pent up in one place, worse even than the Poppy—and no onstage partners but this one last mec, Feste, worked up in a dream of darkness as a kind of, what? confidant? or toy? And certainly not Mouse, who once was partner, troupe, and all, though “When we came here,” he says, apple down to take the cup, cupping it in both his hands, “it was my thought that we—he and I—” The oldest, dearest dream of all, he and Rupert and the shows at last resumed, the two of them together on the road, playing as they used to, as they ought, always ought to do.

But instead it came to be everything but: Rupert playing at minder with Lucy—as if she were Ag come again, even still, here, now—and at businessman with Arrowsmith, Mouse the money-trader, who would ever have fathomed
that
? “Purse-string fingers,” he says, low, shadows on his face that Lucy has never seen before. “Stocks, and gold, and who the fuck knows what else—What business had he, wasting himself on foolishness like that?”

“He did it for you,” says Lucy softly. “For all of us,” landing the way they had, as exiles, Istvan healed so slowly from his wounds, she so green and the puppets still idle: it was a godsend, that selling and buying, and the building given them for a pittance, Mr. Arrowsmith not patron so much as friend; wasn’t he? So disappointed when they decamped to come here—and what truly lay behind that move, who can say? She never asked; she went where they led her. Was that wrong? “How else were we to live?”

“As we used to,” to himself more than to her, he and Mouse hand-to-mouth on the road or drowning in ducats, there is no middle ground and need be none, are they burghers or old women, to count pennies and fear the winter’s cold? Christ. “And don’t say he was skilled at it, of course he was, he can be anything he chooses. See him at that ball, recall? Anyone would think he was a landed lord—”

“Or at the dinner,” watching him, the light in his eyes when he speaks of Rupert; she knows so little of their history, truly. Once they were twain, on stage and in life, then parted in some unknown way, then reunited at the Poppy like two hands folded together, meant to be together, together still though parted also, she feels that distance between them though she cannot give it a name, would not dare to, has rarely even offered the comfort that, shyly, she does now: a hand on his shoulder, her cheek resting just a moment on his own bent head, like sister and brother, yes: she loves him. “Lord enough for Lady de Metz, that was certain—she took a shine to him, I’m thinking. And that Benjamin, too—”

—as he pats her loving hand, pushes his cup aside: a sideways smile, the mask resumed as “Did I tell you I saw him? the boy? Out with his little cronies, at the Calf you so deplore.” Sharing the cream of the evening’s lark, she shakes her head with a savoring smile, imagining their faces and “That boy,” she says, “was friendly-like to me, but he’s got a tongue like an awl, doesn’t he? Poke a hole straight through you to get to the joke. And monstrous idle, all those rich young men—”

“That’s why he’s time to dally with groomsmen and teachers and such. That Petkov fellow—they kicked him right back to his shitheel village after the Happy Prince was done with him, yeah? Blinking his pretty eyes, dropping a trail of coins, what else for a numbskull to do but follow.” Swallowing the dregs, cup down as Rupert enters, raising his voice just a notch: “The boy goes merrily on, but it’s hard lines for the poor tutor, yeah?”

“Well,” says Lucy equably, “may be he should have kept his hands to himself.”

“Not easy to do when the prick’s in play.” Taking up the knife again to strop it lightly on his thumb, teasing the skin there as “We’ve been asked to a party,” Rupert showing the invitation, the de Metz seal in a scented crust of wax. “Some sort of masquerade, I gather—her man brought it. I’ve accepted on our behalf.”

Istvan looks it over for half a moment, tosses it down and “Of course you did,” pushing back from the table. “We all know how you love to frolic with the quality. Perhaps I’ll dress as a gentleman, that’s costume enough.”

“What’s got into you?”

“Nothing,” knife to pocket and gone, Rupert looking after him with such honest confusion that Lucy gives an April smile, a little shrug and “That boy,” she says, “that Benjamin de Metz. He doesn’t like him much.”

“What’s in him, to like or dislike?”

Should she say it? when Rupert should see it on his own? Why else would Istvan bother to tweak the boy so in public, make a song to shame him, why else care one way or another about the tutor’s disgrace? so, lightly, “He’s a bit jealous, that’s all,” to Rupert’s look still blank; as clever as he is! Men! “Of the boy, and you…. When is the party? Am I to go?”

“Not this time,” with a frown, the invitation for himself and Istvan alone, what does that mean? And
jealous
—what does
that
mean? “Though there’s a little note—here—for you,” pale violet paper, ebony ink addressed in a feminine and flowing hand,
Mlle. Lucinda Bell
to bring Lucy’s little crow: “She’s coming here,” passing him the note. “She said she would,” to the
The Dragon and St. George
under the wings of the Blackbird, I look forward to an entertaining and enlightening afternoon.
“She was uncommonly friendly, to me, I mean, a quality lady like that,” but he is no longer truly listening, the notion flickering inside: jealous? Istvan? Who has never once evinced a moment’s worry that any other might catch Rupert’s eye, and why should he? There is no other. Jealous, foolishness—nodding to Lucy as he leaves, climbs the stairs, the matter dismissed—

—until the night of the masquerade, Istvan busy with a new cravat, oversized, a lush and tropic gold and “What’s that neckerchief about?” Rupert reaching for the silver box of collar studs, annoyed at the waste of the evening ahead: saying yes for Istvan’s sake, Istvan who seeks as ever to cultivate these people, these de Metzes and de Mercys, when he need not bother, need never bother, they have money enough on their own—but now this pitch-black humor, that unbelievable tie. “Is it your costume, messire?”

“What’s yours?” Slipping the rude domino into his pocket, a
bal masque
, fine, he knows how to do that. Pity he cannot bring Feste as well, what fun it would be to pop him out at the table. “The modest parson? The country mouse? Why not go as Castor and Pollux, or is that too out of date?” with a look thrown over his shoulder, inscrutable and cold—

—yet the names a touch to Rupert’s heart, Rupert’s hand reaching to take him by that shoulder—but feeling there, as he always will, as he hates to do, the scars: the scars he caused, the wounds he made with his own stupid recklessness, just as if he had used the knife, the pain felt fresh and grievous every time—

—and his hand flinches back, slides instead down Istvan’s arm, the muscles there tight as Istvan’s little smile, a different sort of pain unrecognized by Rupert as “Ready for the show?” Istvan pulling away now, catching up his hat. “Then let’s away.”

The white lilies and white ivy stand, still, at the townhouse doors, though the evening’s cold has crisped the flowers’ edges, and tonight they are sprinkled throughout with red, bright holly berries like drops of blood, the motif repeated in the servants’ crimson livery, the dozens of red candles burning beneath the black chandeliers, the glossy red rosebud offered to every guest: affixed to the gentlemen’s lapels, tucked into the ladies’ décolleté or headdress, or tied by ribbon to a bracelet or neckpiece, as Isobel wears hers, red against darker rubies “Like a cut throat,” says Fernande, herself in black with dyed ermine trim. “And why masked?” scratching somewhat irritably at her velvet domino. “We all know who we are.”

Isobel gives a little smile: “It was Benny’s fancy,” and thus obeyed by himself and all his friends, all present and semi-decorous, at least no one yet is drunk or brawling. Even that Pinky, in his tri-pronged headdress, circulates amongst the ladies, asking in the current manner
Will she take an ice? Would she care to walk into the gardens?
as Benjamin himself, all in red save his mask and black cravat, receives at the door:
Let me, Belle,
and when she showed surprise,
It’s my house, too, isn’t it?

All that’s mine is always yours. You know that
—but what he wants tonight is not hers to give. The usual guests, Guerlains and Guyons and Chamsaurs, could lure him nowhere but elsewhere, the usual gossip a bore. But now, see him sparkle past his mask, see entering “M. Bok,” behind a flimsy little domino, his colleague beside in another even less well made, is it some fashion in their circles to do so? since otherwise their dress is faultless. And both so handsome, too, even Fernande gives an appreciative grunt as “Recalling your little beefsteak?” Isobel sotto voce in passing, coming forward as Benjamin leads the men to her side: “No one here,” extending her gloved hand, “could look so well concealed. I am so pleased that you could attend, gentlemen.”

The cab ride endured in a silence their arrival has not repaired, a silence stretching until “The pleasure is ours, Madame,” says Rupert, since Istvan does not speak first as he always does, only smiles, too bright and too swiftly gone: his onstage smile, what does this mean? Silence again as a servant for the moment requests Isobel’s full attention, and the other guests stand watching like an audience, seemingly stilled by their advent, these men the only strangers in the room—

—but not to every guest, not to “Achille Guerlain,” as Pinky eagerly advances, hand outstretched. “Benjamin said you might be here tonight.” Bowing to them both, his admiring smile is for Istvan alone: “Your song was quite topping, sir! Even though it tugged a bit at the shorter hairs, if you know what I’m saying.”

“I rather believe I do. All in good fun, though, of course,” as Rupert stands excluded, what song? And what is this boy about, now, this banker’s son? as Istvan cuts his gaze sideways: “Why don’t you drink?” coolly. “No doubt there’s whiskey here somewhere—toe aside a rock, see what you find.”

“We’re not all like that, you know,” says Pinky, as Rupert’s lips tighten and he turns away, Benjamin, of course, following after, like Mary and her little lamb, after a brief, correct, and meaningless bow to Istvan, who returns it as briefly and correctly: mark the boy in his red velvet and rosebud, like a little treat brought home from the chocolatier’s. “At the Calf, that is, some of us have got
some
purpose. Not I, I’ve only got a title, the old stick’s title, you know, but Hugh—he’s one of our set—he’s going to get married soon, and Benjamin, why, he can do anything he likes. You ought to hear him warble! Me,” with a confidential frown, “I can’t sing a note, when I try the windows seem to shatter. But I had a puppet theatre once, my sisters and I used to play at Punch and Judy—I was always the Judy, can you fathom that, sir? My sisters are such awful harpies.” A cheerful smile that Istvan returns, impossible not to warm to the boy, in his mad headdress, snub nose as pink as if it had been rouged: a player at heart, whether he knows it or not.

Any folk may be divided so, into those who play, and those who only watch. Observe now this drawing room as a kind of stage, its grand piano ready for the overture, its set dressing sumptuous in red and black:
Scene I, the masquerade.
There is Lady Guerlain, pretty as a doll made of feathers and moonlight, ill-suited for the heavy pearls she wears, the ancient Guerlain pearls stout as a hangman’s rope about her neck; call her the ranking ingénue, and her aged husband a pillar of the stage, so white and motionless he stands beside her. See the lines exchanged—vapid, rapid, poisonous and sweet—between herself and her bosom friends, ladies whose days are spent preparing for their evenings, whose bosoms bear jewels as costly as her own, though worked in more fantastical and modern styles: black filigree earrings frail as cobwebs, a lizard made of jade and emeralds, a golden locket formed into a swollen heart; which of them is tonight’s heroine? Any? Or none? Watch their cavaliers play at rakes and roués, the night’s license bought by the masks they wear; yet they go unmasked to greater freedoms in the greater world, with the girls of the Golden Calf so favored by Pinky and his friends, or the dollhouse whores whose breath reeks of peppermint, whose bills of health are tacked onto the walls above their beds, who pay for those bills with a different kind of frolic, another sort of playhouse show. In the daytime world, these men are the levers and traps of a great machine, its motion invisible to many, its gears and grinding wheels felt most by those too small to flee its passing, those whose passing it never feels at all; like the circling servants, perspiring in their meaningless finery: call them stagehands, there to serve the drama while tasting none of it themselves, as they do with the drinks they offer, the Turkish wines, the crisp champagne, the scarlet punch that Pinky accepts, now, from a proffered tray, hands to Istvan and “What I do quite well,” says Pinky, taking another glass for himself, “is drink,” as an older man, masked in red, his silver hair brushed severely back, approaches, unseen by the boy. “I can drink like a dromedary, sir, or a soldier on home leave—”