Under the Poppy (6 page)

“The one who sat with you? The old masher? About to cream himself, wasn’t he?”

“He, and Arrowsmith, and that stiff-necked cunt of a colonel—they could close this place down, you understand? Any one of them could close it down in a day.”

Istvan picks up knife and apple, slowly slices a sickle of fruit. “Would that be the worst thing?”

“You never change, do you?” Rupert’s eyes widen. “You can hurt a great many people, messire, with your artistry. Is that why you came?” Istvan does not answer. “Why are you here?”

“Why are you? When there are so many other places to be? Like Paris. Or Hammersmith—”

“Stop it.”

“Or Petersburg—”

“Stop!” so hard they both stop, then. The room is quiet. Finally, “I have people, here.”

“And I have people everywhere I go, in my little trunks. And more people out front, watching. There are people people people everywhere, Mouse, all over the fucking world, and all of them will pay to see what they want to see. You of all people should know that.” Another pause, then more quietly, “What did you think of my song?”

Again Rupert looks away, this time at the floor, at his feet in their mended boots. When he speaks, it is not in answer.

“He wants to meet you. He thought your show was ‘piquant.’ ”

Istvan smiles then, another kind of smile, it might remind a watcher of Pan Loudermilk’s icy grin. “Who, the masher? By all means. Is it to be a private showing?”

“We’re dining with him this evening,” Rupert says, and steps away, toward the door, holds it pointedly open and “Don’t mistake me, Istvan,” using his name for the first time, looking directly into his eyes, darkness into darkness. “You can bolt whenever things get sticky, but I have a house to run.”

“A
house.
” Softly as a lover, a murderer come face-to-face, mouth to mouth almost, they breathe each other’s breath. “What kind of house? A second-rate brothel in a third-rate town, catering to the hoi polloi, the slippery pricks, any bastard with a dollar can shine his shoes on you—”

As softly: “And what you do is better?”

“What I do is mine. And you, you could be—”

“Enough. We leave for the hotel at half-past six. Wear a smile, messire, or I’ll break your fucking neck.”

He shuts the door on Istvan, closes his eyes. When he opens them again he sees the apple remnants on the table, the little white knife that he takes into his hand, fingers curled so tight they turn white as the bone it is carved from, horse bone maybe or maybe a deer; a unicorn horn. That makes it magic. He slips the knife into his breast pocket, seems to find its weight hurtful, takes it out again. The desk has a tiny drawer, perhaps the width of two fingers, opened by the smallest steel key on his watch chain. He tucks the knife into this drawer, and locks it shut again. His hands are trembling.

Javier Arrowsmith

It is a failing to be dainty, but truly, I dislike it here. The climate does not at all agree with me, being both damp
and
dry, and the hotel is somewhat vile: this morning there were silverfish in the bath, many silverfish, as if a thriving colony had been disturbed. I am no aesthete, I have slept in the fields many a night, but when my business here concludes I will not be sorry.

Others have business here as well, differing steps in the same dance, though not all dance to the same tune: my associate Jürgen Vidor, of course, as well as the foolish little mayor, and the bewhiskered colonel who measures me, man-to-man and eye to eye; he is predictably hardheaded, I think, that Essenhigh, but it is never too early to cement local alliances, the town will be annexed by the military very soon. The shops are still open, there is still meat and fuel to be had, but this will not last the winter. And as ever, carrion will bring the ravens. I will have returned to Brussels by then, or at least that is my modest hope, but our holdings in Archenberg will continue to require protection, and here is where the garrison is housed. No matter the civil shortages, the town lies close enough to a railway that our resupply will pose no lasting problems; certainly the General is sanguine. Whatever disorder awaits the region, our interests will finally prevail: order is the true handmaiden of commerce, always. It is why I left the diplomatic corps.

Though I am but an agent of commerce, still I strive to see beyond the horizon imposed by the demands of that commerce. And as a man and a citizen, it is surely one’s duty to participate in the widest world possible to one’s station in life. Therefore, I have closely observed several of these “revolutions,” these periods of flux, and always what intrigues me are the patterns one finds.

Men are, at bottom, most predictable creatures, with predictable rages and woes. The majority of the citizenry pose no threat at all to our interests: one may soothe them with promises, or bully them forward with the fist, much like driving cattle. But always there are the few who act, and react, according to their own inner lights. I have lately read some interesting theories as to why this should be so: does a man’s inner spirit drive his actions, say, or do the actions form the spirit, as a glass shapes the liquid it holds? My own belief is that we see a man most clearly in his wants.

Consider my current colleagues. The mayor, Redgrave, is purely cattle, he wants only to be fed and cosseted and kept from real harm. On the wants of his disgusting attaché I will not speculate; they do not signify, as he finally does not. The colonel—I do not know the colonel well enough, yet, to say what it is he most desires, other than what all military men desire, power over others. No one becomes a soldier for the rations, after all.

Now consider Jürgen Vidor. By his will, we must meet here, in this barren little town—instead of in Archenberg, where the General visits weekly, where the accommodations are, if not lavish, at least more civilized—because of this Rupert Bok, the brothel keeper, to whom Vidor is plainly attached. Now why this man, and not another? and to a degree unmatched in Vidor’s history? Always before, he has prized variety, and anonymity, and discretion most of all. It is a very curious thing.

The mayor does not mark this, though that attaché is more thoroughly in the know. The colonel also is unaware, but our evening at the theatre must have shown him something, if he has eyes to see…. I myself enjoyed that evening very much, especially the fine surprise of seeing Dusan onstage—I had last seen him perform in Brussels, he was calling himself something different there, and something else again here. But there is no mistaking true artistry. Those puppets! They are just like little men, though spared the dullness of death and the rigors of conscience. Very entertaining. And what a clever stroke, to mix them with the whores—Dusan did something similar in the Grand ’Place, once, though nothing like so elaborate.…The little pianist is quite talented, too.

Tonight Vidor dines tête-à-tête with his
amour potentiel
. Tomorrow he and I will meet with the colonel, if he returns in time, and the wire from Brussels agrees. Until then I take the air, I read the local broadsheets, I harry the silverfish, I attempt to buoy my spirits with spirits and conversation. If the redheaded young madam was amenable, I might ask for her, she reminds me not a little of my own sweet Liserl. But that drink, I’d warrant, is sour all the way down.

“Lovely,” Istvan’s wink as he and Rupert enter the hotel to the smell of boiled beef, horseshit, and horsehair glue. A hulking man in brown clodhoppers sits as if planted on the bench by the door. One ill-potted tree lists at drunken attention, the sullen clerk does the same, watching them approach the front desk. Istvan is groomed and clean-shaven, boots freshly blacked, faultless in midnight blue. Beside him Rupert, in his black and shabby hat, looks like a beadle or a jailer, stands watchful as both and “One jape,” he murmurs, “one funny joke…. Not tonight.”

“My thoughts were purely pious, till you spoke.”

“For Mr. Vidor,” says Rupert to the desk clerk, who stands marginally more erect, though his expression does not change, suspicion and grime and “I thought,” the clerk says, “you was maybe here to hire some more whores for your dancehall.”

Istvan gives him a wink. “Are you looking to change professions?”

“Quiet.—Mr. Vidor,” says Rupert. “Is he in?”

“I am, and I am here,” summoned seemingly out of the air, resplendent in bottle-brown velvet, impeccable boots, a dandy’s shimmering tie. His genial hand offered first to Rupert, then to Istvan, the clerk’s quick and counterfeit grin as “Mister Vidor,” he says, too loudly, “gents to see you. Will you be wantin’ the guard, sir?” nodding to the hulk in the corner; Jürgen Vidor shakes his head. “And you was dinin’ in your room tonight, is that right? With these gents, is that right?”

“Yes, dinner in my rooms. But we’ll have the wine now,” nodding toward a little alcove, green-striped curtains and a table set for three, a brown-haired maid with a bottle and a nervous smile and “Whiskey,” Rupert says to her, though Jürgen Vidor raises his eyebrows: “We’ve a quite acceptable Bordeaux,” he says. “The General sent it with his compliments. You will have a taste, at least, Rupert?”

Istvan looks down at the green needlepoint chair, watching through his lashes; Rupert feels his gaze. “I’m not much for wine, Mr. Vidor, as you know.”

“Just a taste.”

Three glasses are poured. Jürgen Vidor offers a toast: “To Caliban and sawdust,” nodding at Istvan. “I felicitate you, sir, on your performance. And your artistry. It is not often one sees such wit in such a lonely place.”

“Many thanks,” says Istvan. “I felt myself inspired.”

“By—?”

“Erato. Or is it Euterpe?” He sips his wine; he appears to be in vast good humor. “I confess I’ve been known to confuse them.”

“Sisters sometimes look alike,” says Jürgen Vidor. “Even Melpomene…. I understand you come to us from abroad?”

“This vintage is excellent,” Istvan says; he taps Rupert on the wrist. “Try it, go on.—Yes, I was on the Continent awhile. A poor player like myself must go wherever the winds take him.”

“I think you are too modest. I am sure you have had many patrons.”

Between them, Rupert sits silent, the wine stem in his fingers. Jürgen Vidor’s gaze never leaves Istvan, who leans back in his chair and smiles, a sunny smile and “The theatre,” he says, “finds friends wherever it goes. Or makes them. I am fortunate enough to stop here for a time—”

“How long are you with us?”

“Until the muse beckons me elsewhere. And yourself, Mr. Vidor? Do you stay?”

“Whiskey,” says Rupert to the maid. Both men look at him; he offers a thin smile and “I’ll have my wine with the meal,” he says, but leaves his glass behind when dinner is announced. The three of them move together, past the benched and watchful bodyguard, through the lobby that has become more crowded, now, as night comes on, trunks arriving, carts departing, men calling one to another, people passing on the stairs and “Ah,” says Jürgen Vidor, pausing to halt a narrow-faced gentleman on his way down. “Mr. Arrowsmith, good evening. You’re acquainted with Mr. Bok—”

“Indeed,” a bow pleasant and correct. “Good evening, messire.” His gaze touches Istvan, is there the slightest flicker in his eyes?

“And this is—”

“The
maître de marionette
,” says Mr. Arrowsmith; his smile is genuine. “Of course. Sir, I much enjoyed your programme.”

“Many thanks,” Istvan says. His bow is luxurious. “You are too kind. I was but one of a talented troupe.”

“So many talents, at the Poppy,” says Jürgen Vidor, with a genial air. To watch the four of them, one might think he, Istvan, and Mr. Arrowsmith are old friends, Rupert a conscript or a mute valet, so much does he angle himself apart, so silently does he stand.

But as one they move aside when a fifth descends: Colonel Essenhigh, his springy whiskers doused in some spicy scent, his uniform buffed and brushed and “Good evening, Colonel,” says Jürgen Vidor; he seems mildly surprised. “I understood you to be in Archenberg tonight—?”

“No,” says the colonel. “I’m not.”

“You know Mr. Arrowsmith. And Mr. Bok—”

“Yes,” nodding first to Mr. Arrowsmith, no nod for Rupert, who returns the look, the two of them expressionless as wolves on the steppe, dogs in the alley until “You,” says the colonel abruptly to Istvan. “That was your show, at the whorehouse, eh? With the dolls?” Istvan gives an agreeable nod. “I don’t care for that, sir. Dolls, and other things. A man ought to fuck a woman and no one else, that’s what I say.”

“Pan Loudermilk would agree with you.”

“Who’s that?”

“A doll.”

Mr. Arrowsmith’s lips purse minutely. Jürgen Vidor nods toward the stairs. “Will you join us at dinner, Colonel? Mr. Arrowsmith?” who shrugs graciously, he is otherwise engaged but “I don’t care to eat with masquers,” the colonel says curtly, “with people who hide what they are.”

“You must often be lonely, then, Colonel,” says Mr. Arrowsmith, with affable regret. “Come, have a drink with me before my appointment. I don’t know that I can subdue that villainous brandy alone.”

The colonel shakes his head. “I’m going to the whorehouse. The real whorehouse,” stolid down the stairs, the others watch him go and “He lacks imagination,” says Mr. Arrowsmith, in a diagnostic tone. “Endemic in the military, I’m afraid.”

“I could teach him to waltz,” says Istvan. Mr. Arrowsmith smiles openly. Jürgen Vidor motions ascent: “Shall we, then? Good evening, Mr. Arrowsmith.”

The first impression of his rooms is of an overstuffed pocket: red velvet curtains deeply drawn, every surface cluttered with books, maps, inkstands, wax flowers and other ephemera of
vertu
, a large rosewood teapoy, opera glasses, a brass telescope, a silver cigar-lighter shaped like a nude Greek god. Two wardrobe trunks stand open, hung with waistcoats, lined with neckties and cravats. By the shrouded window, a round table is set for three, with ugly, heavy china. A chipped teak bed tray is half laid with a hand of cards creased with much usage, the kings and queens furtive and Italianate. Istvan nudges them with one finger: “You play patience, messire?”

Jürgen Vidor shrugs. “In the small hours, I am often wakeful.”

“You have many cares,” Istvan says, with sympathy. “A man of business such as yourself.” Rupert, by the dining table, gives him a glare; his whiskey glass is empty. When the brown-haired maid brings their dinner—rare beef and mashed turnips, heavy cream and cheese, the fine Bordeaux—Rupert sends her back down for the bottle, sits drinking all throughout the meal as the other two watch him covertly, measure one another, eat and pretend to enjoy a chat: about the theatre, about the continent, about the stickpin worn by Jürgen Vidor, a golden snake shaped like a question mark, a fat black pearl caught in its fangs: “The Questioning Serpent,” he says, touching it fondly. “Disraeli had one just like it, I understand, brought back from the Ottomans.”