Under the Poppy (44 page)

—as in another room, another letter is soberly considered, Istvan in shirtsleeves on the edge of the bed, reading once again in the uncertain lamplight the words he knows by heart:
Obstructing me as you do, I observe that you fear no one’s disfavor, not our friends Rawsthorne and Pepper, nor even their friends, so much greater than you or I. Indeed I perceive you precisely, in the shadow of the poppy! But those walls were mine even as you quartered there, as it was mine to gather what you scattered. Do you recall Prussia? I pray you know me when we meet again.
Back into the creased envelope it goes, into the chipped lockbox, into the safe secured with the black metal key itself secured, as Istvan takes a swallow of brandy that neither warms nor heartens him, and rubs his aching eyes. Up half the night at the Fin, he and Feste, feasting on the brink since it will have to last, that show, for who knows how long; he had them screaming anyway, that is a comfort…. And Boilfast a bit of comfort too, that dry offer of sanctuary:
You need to go to ground, Monsieur? For how long?
bringing Istvan’s shrug, and his own nod in answer:
Why, you are ever welcome here, stay as long as you please. Can you by chance wield a mop at all?

And back, then, owl-eyed through the dark, to spend the night’s last hours fighting with Mouse, another kind of final performance. Placing the quarrel with cold precision, needling, mocking, shouting so he could be heard by Lucy a floor away:
I didn’t take you from one bolthole to waste my life huddling in another. You may be content here, in this—domestic bliss, but I am not.
No one will ever know what it cost him, knowing what Mouse will think, tomorrow, what he must believe, seeing that look in his eyes—
Why can you not be—happy, here? With me?
—and yet turning away, back stiff, arms crossed, as if unmoved…. No wonder one flees from love, when it digs its spurs like this, who in the fuck would ever choose to feel so? If he were not the player he is, he could never do this, never.

Afterward Rupert vanished away, furious and stricken—up to the catwalk? or out on the roof, to roost in ice until the morning?—a silence as cold lasting all the day long; and still silent, now, as he approaches their rooms, to ready for the endless evening ahead. Glancing at Istvan sitting hands-clasped on the bed, he looks pointedly away, turning to root through the clutter on his desk, searching for nothing until “Mouse,” at his ear, that murmur, “we’ll not be at odds tonight, yeah?” to turn him back, each as helpless as the other, to meet in an embrace that enfolds the night just past, the pains wreaked, the scars like, yes, these ropy, hateful, eternal marks, livid as if just inflicted, displayed anew as Istvan strips his shirt, as Rupert reaches to mute the lamp—

—but Istvan stops him, holds him, stands before him wounded and beautiful, the child in the viaduct, the center of his heart, open to him like a heart broken and still beating, a puppet snapped in two yet still onstage and “Leave it,” his whisper, mouth to mouth, skin to skin in love enacted and endlessly renewed, until Rupert draws that tired head down to his shoulder, and thinks that, perhaps, now that the New Year is upon them, they might find the way, he might find a way to make Istvan happy, somehow, once again.

At last “We’d better dress,” Rupert’s weary smile, “and face the world,” looking down to Istvan looking up at him from the landscape of the bed and “This is the world,” Istvan murmurs. “This bed, Mouse, and no other,” so strangely somber that Rupert feels the shadow, like the passage of a dark wind but “Buck up,” he says, trying for lightness, trying to rouse a smile. “We’re off to a party—I’ll even dance, if you like. Won’t that be entertaining.”

“Save the show for the stage,” as Istvan at last tosses back the coverlets, to rise, and stretch, and splash water on his face, to brush his dinner jacket, to watch as Rupert attends to his own toilette, each move and moment stored in mind: this too will have to last. As Rupert bends to his boots, Istvan reaches unseen to the bedside table, to slip into his breast pocket Rupert’s signet ring, and leave behind in its place his own little white knife.

At the townhouse Pinky’s is the first face they see, beaming and bright above a costume that owes nothing to his friend’s latest fad for propriety: lapels pink and gaping as a calf’s tongue, a cravat worked in gorgeous gaudy gold, even the beginnings of a curly beard since “I got the taste for it as the rich young fellow,” beaming at Istvan as together they approach the drawing-room. “You know, the one you warned off mortal damnation?”

“Ah, but did you take my warning
….
It does suit you,” with a smile of his own, all gravity hidden, onstage now until the thing shall be accomplished. Joking in the cab to Rupert, kissing all the ladies’ hands, he even throws a half smile to the Happy Prince, lovely as a lamb shorn, and the center of much dovecote fluttering and attention: hand pressed and cheek saluted by dreadful old Fernande—“Happy birthday, godson. Though there’s not much of either about you, is there?”—as well as a selection of the faster young ladies in attendance, first among them Adele Chamsaur, nudged on by her mother to offer “Many felicitations of the day, Benjamin.” Rouge-pink lips pecking his own, white hand squeezing his forearm, a truly daring neckline for an unmarried girl, but he barely nods in answer, barely sees her, lost in a cloud of impatience and desire: Monsieur his master finally, finally arrived, but how long until they might speak alone, be alone? for he has a gift of his own to give, tonight.

Still it is Isobel who claims Rupert first, after she and Istvan have greeted each other as bosom friends, his kiss, her murmur—“Even you cannot guess how glad I am to see you now”—then linking arms with Rupert, leading him in beneath the black glass chandeliers, the sharpened attention of her guests, the faintly raised eyebrows and remarks passed smirking behind hands. She is queenly to be sure in silver, with diamonds in her hair, diamonds at her throat, the striking new gloves reaching to take from a proffered tray champagne for them both as “I’ve whiskey for your dinner, of course, Monsieur. But have a glass with me now,” as Rupert, distracted, looks between Istvan, laughing with Jean de Mercy, and Benjamin, the center of a group of girls clustered below the painting, Venus, Cupid, folly and time, yes indeed, but with eyes for him alone. “You’ve been scarce, we have not seen you since Miss Bell’s Christmas play. And Benny has missed you so.”

“Indeed. That is, I beg pardon,” drinking to cover his confusion, looking hastily elsewhere in the glitter and throng, this room crowded with roses and lights, musicians in the corner sawing away at some scampering tune, servants in white and guests in red velvet, to see someone else he knows, dark suit, a darker smile approaching and “Why,” says Hector Georges, “here is an old friend, unmet for too long. Happy new year, M. Bok,” hand out, the silver ring gleaming on his thumb. He looks just the same, the General, as ageless as a cliff or a skull, they might have parted in Brussels just yesterday, or that strange masquerade dinner a moment before. “But where is your partner, sir? A veritable Jonathan and David, one so rarely sees the one of you without the other.”

Isobel drinks down the last of her champagne; her smile shows her teeth. “As you and my father are similarly joined. It is wonderful, is it not, to have such a friend?”

“Indeed it is,” looking to her as Rupert studies him in sudden wary unease, the old instincts prickling, now what is this?—

—as Adele Chamsaur stands on tiptoe to Benjamin, trying to hold his attention, a girl unused to failure, but fail she does as he turns away with half a bow, passing by Pinky, who tries to catch his eye and fails, too, shrugging to Adele: “He’s changeable as the sea, and just as deep; that’s how it is with a poet. We’ll be boats in his wake together, shall we? Would she care for an ice?”

“She would rather a glass of Champagne,” says Adele boldly. “Perhaps two glasses,” and Pinky grins, offering his arm, she accepting with the pleasant grace of practicality: a banker’s son here in town is in some ways preferable to one of higher social caliber, for Chatiens is so deep in the country, and poetry is not something she enjoys.

As they wend through the crowd, they pass without noticing a man framed for that passing moment in the doorway, slick hair and poorly fitted coat, Mr. Entwhistle the skeleton at the feast: the decadence and frivol before him tucked away like marrowbones, to suck and plunder later in private, safely confirmed in his own virtue by his meeting, so dark and early this morning, with the man whose approach now sends him hasty up the servants’ stairs: Isidore a basilisk in black and spotless linen, a stickpin of diamond and gold his only ornament save his wife, Charlotte beside him too bountiful in ingénue pink, cornucopia breasts and too much lace, her curls piled with pink silk rosebuds to flatter Isobel—

—whose kiss, as they meet, noted by the room around them, is merely perfunctory, introducing M. Bok as a “Friend of our family,” while he bows to Charlotte, her smile gone roguish—“Why, where has Isobel been keeping
you
?”—as her husband and Hector Georges exchange the briefest glance. Rupert next offers his hand to Isidore, who for a moment does not move to take it, considering this “friend” of the family, this landless theatre man whom Hector has intimated has some unknown sway with his daughter, some advantage if the shrill Entwhistle is to be believed. At last he extends his punishing grip, Rupert surprised and then unsurprised, meeting the older man’s strength with his own: in a way it is a relief, this sort of challenge, this at least he knows how to do.

In the end it is Isidore who draws back first, his bones in agony, his smile serene: “Well met, Monsieur,” as Rupert, unsmiling, nods in return. It seems more will be said, perhaps by Isobel poised beside him, perhaps by Charlotte, whose sparkling gaze has not left Rupert: but instead it is Benjamin who appears behind his shoulder, face flushed, taking Rupert by the elbow as “You’ll excuse us, Father? Belle? I must show you, Monsieur, you must see—” with a sketched bow for the company, towing Rupert through the crowd that parts with avid courtesy, out the garden doors into the dark—as Isobel draws a steadying breath, as Charlotte gives her a look of new respect, as Istvan, across the room, watching it all, makes a final quip to laughing Jean de Mercy, and slips away alone into the hall.

Outside the music mutes, the path lies treacherous and slick underfoot, droplets unseen on the lean line of the branches until “Look!” says Benjamin, turning Rupert by the sleeve to watch as the clouds part, just for a moment, to show the moon, a ragged coquette’s flash that turns all the drops to diamonds, that lights the angels brushed with ice above the doors, silver and fleet and “Isn’t it magnificent?” Benjamin says. “I knew you would relish it. But,” as the moon disappears again, the chill rises, “it doesn’t stay, does it.”

“No,” Rupert looking up into the clouds, then down into his eyes, what a tumble of light and dark the boy is himself; but no, not a boy any longer, is he? so “Felicitations of the day,” he says. “You’ve had a pile of gifts, no doubt—”

“Oh, we’ll not talk as they do in there, will we? that stupid room, all those people…. Did you ever read my poems?” with such abrupt and naked longing that “Yes,” Rupert says, very quietly. “I read them all. Many times.”

“Oh
Maître
—”

“No,” through a wave of his own longing, thinking of Istvan, thinking of the people in that room. “We’ll not speak of it. It is not—seemly, Benjamin—”

“I love you.” His heart feels as if it will burst: into flame, into flower, the first time he has ever said those words to anyone. And the first time Rupert has ever called him so, called him by name as “You want me,” he says, reaching to touch his master’s face, careless of who might be watching, careless of the world. “Don’t you want me?”

“Yes, I want you,” seizing that hand in a hard grip, half a lover’s, half a father’s, “but it’s not to be, you understand? I’ll keep your poems always, but you must not write more, you must—”

“You want me,” again, as the moon lights up the dead branches, “and you’ll see,
Maître
, we’ll be together, you’ll see—”

—as inside the music changes to a sprightly march, playing the guests in to supper, a silver figure passing like an anxious ghost before the garden doors and “Come,” Rupert resolute on the path, turning so that Benjamin turns with him, to step back into the rooms so over-hot and overcrowded, drenched with scents and noise and colors, it is like walking into a distorted dream, from the simplicity and candor of the dark and the cold outside. Isobel notes their expressions, so opposite that they are just the same—Benny’s rapturous, M. Bok’s like a door locked from the inside—with all those others watching, her father and Hector most of all; oh
mon Dieu
, if M. Dieudonne was not here she must certainly despair. Dieudonne, yes, God gives; perhaps yes—

—as she links arms with them both, feeling the cold come off their bodies, her smile valiant and composed as “We’re about to cut the king cake, gentlemen. Join me at the table,” where conversation swirls and flutters, wine is poured and drunk, the candles bloom more hectic than any rose, and the ornate cake, spiced with fruit and almonds, smothered in gilt-paper leaves, is carried in, cut, and passed down the table by the maidservants—

—all but Otilie, who stands in the pantry with the lone guest missing, Istvan who takes from her the pair of kitchen snips: “Many thanks,” preoccupied with the draping strings in his hands, cutting a wee knot-and-tangle so the awful little sacklike body may stand fully upright. “Now, have you a twist of ribbon, or—that’s it. Capital,” and he makes to give her a coin in thanks, but “I’d rather have a kiss,” says Otilie saucily: this handsome gentleman friend of Madame’s and of Lucy Bell’s, too, so why not hers as well?

Instead Istvan laughs: “Are you into the sherry, darling? I’m afraid I’m off kissing just now. Take the money,” with a wink that is pure artifice, a little foam on the wave of the player’s deep, waiting until she leaves to kiss his fist to the empty room, the old and precious gesture, his last private moment before he enters the dining room, to take his seat between Denis de Mercy and Charlotte de Metz, both of whom are quite happy to see him, with the General across and down the table, Rupert next to Isobel, and Benjamin at his father’s right hand.

It is the General who raises the curtain, albeit unknowingly: with a satisfied little sound, displaying to the company “The bean,” between two fingers, its chased silver bright as a bullet; all dutifully applaud. “Well! I had no thought to be king of the revels tonight, I keep my ambitions modest. But I’ll not disdain the opportunity thrust upon me.”

“’Twasn’t thrust,” says Istvan pleasantly to Charlotte, looking from the serving girl who kept the cake piece separate, to the General, whose gaze turns to him as he speaks. “It was a cheat. As many do, who can win no other way…. May I present,” louder, to the table at large, “a little disquisition on tonight’s feast? a brief morality play? For it’s Epiphany, isn’t it, the showing-forth of the light to those who knew it not?”

A pleased murmur rises from the guests, heads turning first toward Isidore, expressionless at the head of the table, then to Isobel who nods, Rupert beside her alarmed and silent, trying vainly to catch Istvan’s eye: as Istvan shifts his chair, just enough to make room for the tale of “A man,” he says, “who roved the wide world over, traveling every path the earth could offer, working his will as he went. He has one secret, this man: he carries his hunger in a little sack inside his shirt, from which recess it tells him where next to go, it drives him on.”

“Is the man alone?” asks Isobel, her voice clear in the quiet, the flicker of the candles, delivering her line with admirable sang-froid—players
everywhere!—and “He is,” says Istvan, “disdaining all companions save the hunger. Did I mention that the man is a puppet?” taking from inside his coat the deflated sack-and-strings affair, short dangling arms, a gaping, suffering mouth and “Behold our hero,” says Istvan. He is relaxed now, nearly smiling, the agile humor of a man on a tightrope, enjoying the danger below. “It is not a pretty sight, is it, mesdames et messieurs, a creature so empty?” as the unnamed puppet bobs and snatches at Charlotte’s plate: she squeals, and then laughs, a faintly disgusted laugh; the puppet is so very ugly.