Undermajordomo Minor (18 page)

H
ow does it go, boy?”

“They are as you said, sir.”

“Are they not, though?”

“Indeed, and they are.”

“Tell me.”

Lucy regaled his superior with details of his experience up to that moment, leaving out his having a salami in his sleeve, for it was an unfortunate, even shameful fact; and beyond that, he had taken it from the larder without asking permission. Mr. Olderglough listened to the rest, his head down as he took it in. At tale's end, he said, “Gluttons of the basest category.”

“Yes, sir,” said Lucy. “And what of the Duke and Duchess?” He had seen them only in passing, when they entered the castle some hours earlier. They appeared to be of a piece with the Count and Countess in terms of temperament, though were ever more stylish and healthful; the Duchess in particular was something of a pouty beauty, horse-limbed and taller than the Duke by a head.

Mr. Olderglough said, “My experience has been much like yours. I find it something like corralling children, wouldn't you say?”

“It is.”

“But you are holding up, my boy?”

“Oh, I'm fine, sir.” Actually, Lucy found the task of tending to
such people amusing; and this was reflected in his bearing. Now Mr. Olderglough had ceased speaking but was only watching Lucy, and with fondness.

“What is it, sir?”

Mr. Olderglough considered his answer. “Just to say that I'm glad you're here with us, boy. Your very mettle has been tested within these walls, and for what it's worth, you've impressed me, and you have my thanks.”

How curious for him to have spoken these heartfelt words, and seemingly out of the blue; and curiouser still, that Lucy should have found himself so touched by the sentiment. But there he was, swallowing a lump in his throat, and when he replied, it was with sincerity. “Thank you very much, sir. And I hope you know that I'm glad to be here with you all, also.”

“Good, then.” Mr. Olderglough patted Lucy's back. They approached the scullery, and a mischievousness came into the older man's voice: “Now, boy, I hope this doesn't offend, but we've taken a liberty tonight.”

“Oh?” said Lucy. “And what do you mean, sir?”

“A liberty has been taken, is all. Blame Agnes. We needed the extra hand, and she believed it would please you.” Mr. Olderglough opened the door and bade Lucy enter first. Stepping into the scullery, he found Klara standing in the center of the room, wearing a maid's uniform and a timorous look on her face. Her hair had been cleaned and combed and was pulled away and back; her forearms were bare; her white filigreed smock tied tight about her tiny waist. Here was Klara, only a wholly separate version of her, all the more elegant and feminine, and as Lucy absorbed this unpredicted dream of beauty, then did he feel himself falling in plummeting love a second time.

A
gnes, from the larder, called for Mr. Olderglough, and so Lucy was left alone with Klara. He moved to stand before her.

“Who did this?” he asked.

“Don't you like it?”

“I like it.”

“Agnes helped me with my hair.”

“I like it.”

“She has rougher hands than my father.”

“I think you look very nice and I like it very, very much.”

She was smiling, staring at the floor. “But do you
really
like it?” she said.

“I like it. I love it. I love you.”

She looked up now, pleased and relieved by his reaction; for life in the village had never afforded her such finery as this, and she could see how impressed Lucy truly was. Stepping in closer, she reached out for him. Gripping his arm, she paused, and drew her hand away. “What is that?”

“A salami.”

“Why do you have a salami in your sleeve?”

“It's not my salami.”

“Why—do you have a salami in your sleeve?”

Mr. Olderglough returned from the larder and, upon seeing Lucy and Klara so closely paired, began to loudly clap his hands;
over the sound of this, he called to them: “No time for the cooing of doves! Klara, you will go with Agnes in the larder! Lucy, you will assist me in preparing the dining room! We shall cease living for ourselves but only for the others! Servitude is an art! Now and now!” He continued his clapping and encouragements as he walked from the scullery and into the hallway. “Search within yourselves! Excellence! Magnificence!”

Lucy and Klara were smiling. He kissed her forehead and followed Mr. Olderglough but cast a final look over his shoulder before exiting the room: Klara straightening her dress; the loveliness of her profile as she spun about, girlishly, and stepping to the larder. Lucy hurried after the sound of the clapping, which was ongoing.

T
he banquet table was buffed and gleaming, the cutlery polished, napkins pressed, the grand room bathed in the golden coloring of the numberless white candles. The three couples were likewise gleaming and pristinely groomed; they sat upright, nodding politely to one another but speaking little, their conversation stilted and faceless, dealing mostly in governmental gossip. The Baron and Baroness chatted lightly to their guests, but the others wouldn't be drawn out, and Lucy, in delivering the soup, could read a justifiable concern on the faces of the hosts, for the mood was restrained to the point of creating unease, and the evening was in danger of foundering. But, as the second course was served, and the wine began to pour, the group relaxed, and the banter became freer. By the conclusion of the third course the party was gay verging on raucous, heads tilted back in mad laughter, the Count's complexion red-going-purple as he spat up some partially chewed morsel of food. The more they drank, then did the traits of the individuals become ever more vague, and now the party took on a single presence, and there was at the edges of this small society an accrual of unkindness, even menace.

Lucy thought he noticed, then was sure he did, that the Count was watching Klara each time she entered the room. At the start he did this only in stolen snatches, but as the evening progressed his attentions became more overt, so that whenever she came near
he made it a point to initiate some slight contact—to touch her wrist when she took up his empty plate, or to stroke her back as she passed by. When he touched her, she froze, and her face was empty, plain; but Lucy knew she was oppressed by the Count's attentions, and each time it occurred, his stomach pitched. At one point, when Klara had left for the scullery, the Count asked the Baron, “Where did you find that one?”

“Oh, she's just a village girl.”

The Count found this fascinating. “So she's not in your employ?”

“Not typically, no. But we hadn't the time to hire full staff, and so we're just getting by in the meantime. Why do you ask? Are you unhappy with her?”

“Quite the opposite!”

“My husband is smitten, I think,” the Countess explained.

“Ah,” said the Baron, nodding. “Well, one could hardly blame you. Though I think you may have some competition in young Lucy, here.”

The group turned to stare at Lucy, who had been standing at the rear of the room, mutely seething.

“Is that a fact?” said the Count.

“See how he draws up when she comes near,” said the Baron, smiling fondly at Lucy. “Take note of the forlorn look in his eye when she departs. Obviously he has given himself over to her, heart and soul.” He laid his hand on the Baroness's. “It is something which only one in love could identify.”

The Count was watching Lucy. “Well, lad, how about it? Sabers at dawn?”

He was merely making sport, and yet there was an undercurrent of true violence at play as well. You had but to look at the man to see he'd never in his life asked twice for anything he desired. What would it feel like, Lucy wondered, to push a blade into a person? Would it be quick, as when you sliced your hand through a ray of light, or slow, and heavy, like an oar through water? Either way, at that moment he really did want to run this Count through,
and so in reply to the query he said, “At dawn, by the light of the moon—just as you wish, sir.”

The celebrants thought this very fine, and they laughed a long while about it. The Baron himself stood and saluted Lucy, and the Baroness clapped her white gloves in his direction. Lucy bowed to the group and left the dining room to find Klara standing on the other side of the door, flushed and beaming, for she had been eavesdropping, and had heard Lucy's response to the Count's challenge. Lucy was taken up by an uncommon boldness, and he kissed her there, listening to the swish of her uniform against her skin. A moment of this, and she stepped back, watching him with a look of wonderment. A nameless resolution formed in her eyes, then she led him by the hand, away from the dining room and into the cavernous space of the ballroom, closing the door behind them.

S
he was not shy, which made him feel shy. She had pressed him against the far wall of the ballroom, and as she undid his trousers Lucy studied her with an idolization so vast it took on physical properties in his heart; the size and weight of it was frightening for him in that he felt he could not contain it. At certain moments in their coupling she became feverish, and it seemed to Lucy she was not herself at all, but possessed by some spirit he hadn't yet known. He gripped her skull and marveled at its diminutive delicacy, puzzling over how it could be that so frail a vessel might possess such a force as Klara possessed. At the apex of his passion his body was flooded in light. Lucy had never been so moved.

Klara stood and corrected herself, straightening the hem of her dress with a sensible tug of the wrists. She was smiling with sly pride, and she told him, “I'll go first.” Lucy nodded but didn't answer. After she had gone he remained leaning against the wall, legs atremble, trousers still bunched at his ankles.
What an eventful day I'm having,
he thought.

T
his sentiment was compounded when the doors swung open and the partygoers entered in a hysterical troupe. Lucy slipped crabwise to stand behind the curtain at his right; he could think of no way to pull up his trousers without bringing attention to himself, and so was forced to leave them be. He stood for a time in the darkness behind the heavy fabric but soon folded back the edge of the curtain, that he might catch a glimpse of the group; and it was from this vantage point that Lucy could and did witness and catalog the strange and terrible ballroom goings-on. All were present save for the Count, who some moments later scampered into the room, the tart wrapped up in his arms like a swaddled infant, his face descriptive of a perceived immortality.

“Look at how merry he is,” said the Countess.

“Remarkably so,” the Duchess commented.

“Can one be too merry, I wonder?” asked the Baroness.

“One can not,” the Count announced, resting the tart atop the table. “For joy carries no consequence, and is desirous of nothing save for more joy.” As the group digested the statement, the Count stood by, admiring the dessert, smiling sleepily, the picture of satisfied docility. But then some black violence or another occurred in his mind, and a look of cruelty came over him. He punched his fist dead into the center of the virgin tart.

Ballroom Goings-On

T
he Count, in his negligence, as if to intentionally cultivate his negligence, was eating the tart from the cup of his palm, with all the aplomb of a hog lapping slop. Clenching his hand to a fist, he watched the remainder push between his fingers, watched the drabs fall to the floor; he wiped his palm on his trouser leg and regarded the assembled group with glazed eyes. Said the Baron to the Baroness, “Our guest is happy with the tart, my love.”

“It would seem so,” said the Baroness.

“And if he is happy, then we are happy also, isn't that right?”

“We most certainly are.”

“For what is the function of the host, after all?”

She spoke as one performing elocution: “The function of the host is to ensure the comfort and amusement of his guests.”

He patted her hand, and they shared a look of wholesome admiration. Now the Baron addressed the others. “I wonder if the rest of our friends are as well pleased as the Count?”

The Duke said, “I'm feeling very well, myself.” He turned to his wife. “Is there anything you're in need of, dear?”

The Duchess shook her head emphatically.

“Nothing at all?”

She continued shaking her head, and smiling—it seemed she was too intoxicated to speak. In fact, all in the group were by this point thoroughly drunken, their cheeks aglow with wine and good
cheer; it was only natural that they should, in spite of their societal positions, abandon formalities. Still, it was troubling to Lucy that the Count, presently grinding the tart droppings into the carpet with his spat-covered boot, should behave in such a way and receive nothing like a reprimand; for surely he had crossed the line which separates the ready celebrant from the boor. And so Lucy was pleased when the Countess spoke up from her perch on the settee, saying, “Oh, but you're making a mess of it. Don't you see that you'll spoil it for the others?”

The Count ceased grinding the tart. He was staring at the Countess. She ran her finger along the lip of her glass, regretful of having spoken up, apparently. “Well, I'm sorry,” she said, “but it did seem to me you were ruining the dessert for the rest of us, after all.”

His gaze drifted away, and across the room, as though he were taking in the furnishings. An awed expression appeared on his face; one would have thought some profound knowledge had arrived at the forefront of his mind. Regarding the tart, then, he took up yet another handful and crossed over to the Countess, walking with the deliberate steps of a man who was compromised by drink but focusing with all his might on purposeful movement. Standing before his wife, he held his tart-dripping fist out between them. His breathing was erratic.

“And just what do you intend to do with that?” she asked.

The Count reared his hand and slapped her viciously in the face. She reeled backward on the settee and lay still awhile, silent but in a fair amount of pain, it would seem. The Count was pleased with the blow, and returned to his post beside the tart, exhibiting the pride of one having done his duty. The Countess sat up. Though she was bleeding freely from her nose, no one rose to assist her; actually, no one seemed to feel anything at all like concern for her, and it struck Lucy that they were each of them watching the scenario unfold as though it were some type of entertainment or diversion; and indeed, judging by their rapt faces, their reverent silence,
that is precisely what it was for them. Lucy had the impression that this spectacle of violence was something which had happened before, and perhaps many times before.

The Countess stood and stepped away from the settee, the smear of tart over her face soaking up the blood, the crumbs crimson and plumped. She did not appear displeased, or in any way offended; quite the contrary, she wore a look of regal defiance, as though she thought herself the most bewitching woman in the room. She began to undress, and the moment she did this, the Duchess and Baroness came to her side to assist her, wordlessly helping her from her gown and untying her corset. Soon she was naked before the assembled ladies and gentlemen, blood dripping from her chin and decorating her bare bosom, pooling in the slit and snaking down her rounded belly. She moved to the tart and took up the entire tray, delivering this to the Duke with a bow of her head. He accepted the tray automatically but his face expressed dubiety. He turned to the Count.

“And what shall I do now, old friend?” he asked.

“A gentleman must do as a lady wishes,” said the Count.

“You're certain of it?”

“I've never been more certain in my life.”

And so the Duke, too, grabbed a handful of tart and, just as the Count had, jammed it over the Countess's face.

“Harder,” she told him.

Yet another handful, and this applied with increased forcefulness, which sent her toppling, her feet in the air like a tumbler. As before, she lay still awhile, translating her pain, during which time the Duchess began undressing, as did the Count, and Duke. Lucy noticed that when the Duchess stepped from her gown it stood independently, stiff, truncated, to ghostly effect.

And what of the Baron and Baroness? Lucy had been so transfixed by the others he hadn't thought to check their reaction; when it occurred to him to look he was surprised to find the pair, whom he had come to regard with something like veneration, were also
disrobing, pawing at each other and staring into each other's eyes with an animal craving. The group as a whole were evolving or devolving, becoming increasingly alert and agitated, and there was in the room the most terrible sense of expectation which drew Lucy's stomach taut, a crab-apple knot of abhorrence. He wished to quit the room, but there was no way to achieve this. He wanted to look away but he could not. He watched the proceedings with a dumbstruck sense of horror. A numbness spread in his mind and body as he waited for the filthy pageant to pass.

At a certain point the salami, which had been gradually pushing proud of his cuff, dropped away, hitting the ground with a slap and thud; and while no one noticed this happening, Lucy felt that if an errant salami were spied on the floor, and so nearby his person, it would surely invite investigation. He dared not bend down to retrieve it, but decided to kick it away; alas, he did this over-enthusiastically, and the salami rolled halfway across the room, coming to rest mere inches from the Count's naked foot. The Count caught sight of the salami and stared at it; its appearance was disturbing to him in some way. He looked up and around the room, as if for any further clue. Finding none, he nudged the salami with his toe, then stepped uneasily away to rejoin the others.

The Duke was leading the Countess by the hair to kneel before the Baron.

“Why not have a go yourself, Baron?” he asked, and he handed over a plateful of the tart.

The Baron smiled good-naturedly at the Countess; to the Baroness, he said, “What shall I do, my love?”

She scooped up a piece of tart and deposited it in his palm.

“You're certain?” he asked.

She nodded, and the Baron lightly slapped the Countess's cheek. The Countess wore a deflated expression; she looked to the others, as if for intervention.

“No, no,” said the Count.

“We're doing it harder than that, Baron,” said the Duke.

“Much harder,” said the Count.

“Try it again, but with more force,” said the Duke.

“Just as hard as you please,” said the Count.

But the Baron hesitated. “You're certain you want me to?” he asked the Countess.

“Hard,” came her breathless reply.

Now the prevailing abandon took hold of the Baron, and eschewing the tart, he offered up a grand wallop which found the Countess sprawled on the floor yet again. This was roundly applauded; you would have thought by the group's reaction that the Baron had shared some great witticism or insight. The Countess clambered back upright to kneel once more before the Baron, who instructed her to open her mouth, and when she did this he began pushing in handfuls of tart, one after the other, until she gagged and retched, involuntarily spitting the tart out and onto the ground. She was told to eat this up and she acquiesced with great eagerness, as though there was nothing she had ever wanted to do quite so badly. By this time the group were all completely naked, their circle shrinking to a cluster.

There came a phase of general copulation among the partygoers. Lucy did not know and could not deduce what format or protocol they were guided by, but it did seem there were invisible cues of etiquette being adhered to: the manner in which they came together, the labor itself, the business-like briskness with which they parted. Perhaps the most shocking aspect of all this was the absolute lack of humanity in the room, for there was never so much as a kiss shared, never a caress. At a certain point the Count momentarily broke away from the Duchess to fetch the salami. He returned, re-entering her, this time from behind; wielding the salami like a truncheon, he fell to flogging her all about the back and buttocks and head. The others had completed their transaction and now were gathered around to watch this final spectacle. As the Count's thrusting became more frenzied, so too did the whipping, and when he was through, the salami was mutilated, a mere stub in
his greasy grip. He stood away from the Duchess, his body blotchy, clammy, his chest and stomach rising and falling in countertime. The Duchess was perfectly spent; she lay groaning on her stomach, her back coated in welts and bits of meat. The Count threw the stub of salami at her head; it ricocheted off her skull and bounced away, under the settee. In this way the matter was settled.

“Now,” said the Baron, “who is ready for a cigar?”

At the mention of this, the Duke and Count expressed enthusiasm which struck Lucy as outsize to the proposition, clapping their hands and hurrahing. The Baroness, too, was acting strangely, her cheek and neck gone red, her face drawn to a tight smile, as one withholding a private pleasure; she approached the table in the center of the room and climbed atop it. The Baron distributed cigars from a cedar box and the men drew closer to her, stepping luxuriously, as if strolling the promenade of a fine spring morning. The Baroness was in position, her face pressed to the table-top, arms splayed out before her, backside pushed high into the air; the Duke and Count appraised her naked behind while the Baron clambered onto the table, reaching up to the chandelier and removing a lit candle, careful as he descended to preserve the flame.

The moment he had put his hand to the candle, then Lucy had an inkling of what was to come, and he hoped with great sincerity that he was incorrect, but he was not, and when the unlit half of the candle disappeared up the Baroness's rear passage, he found himself wondering at the dark state of man, pondering the notions of freedom, and battling with a distant nausea. One by one the men leaned in and lit their cigars, then stood back to smoke and stare reverently at the woozy candleflame. Perhaps a minute passed. The Baron asked the Duke,

“Whatever became of the shipping situation in your township?”

The Duke stuck out his lower lip and shook his head. “Tempest in a teapot.”

“You seemed concerned when I saw you last.”

“All for nothing. The union organizers were run out of town, and peace has been restored.”

“I'm happy to hear it. And how have your profits been this year?”

“Better all the while.”

“And the weather?”

“We've had a mild winter, thanks to God. And you, what of your interests?”

“As before.”

“Money always came to you.”

“It always has, actually.”

“Money comes to money, they say,” the Count offered.

“They say it and it's true,” the Baron said appreciatively.

The Duchess and Countess, meanwhile, were warming themselves by the fireplace. There was a copious bouquet of yellow roses on the mantel; they began to take up the flowers, one by one, and toss them into the flames. The Baroness had lain still for some minutes but now removed the candle and walked to stand beside her friends. Reaching for a rose, she likewise cast this over the flames, and then again. And so: three naked and unspeaking women threw roses into a fireplace, one after the other, until the bouquet was gone. The men had returned to the settee; they watched their wives perform this mystifying endeavor with somber expressions on their faces. When the roses had gone to ash, and the cigars were snuffed out, the group dressed, bade one another goodnight, and retired in twos, first the Duke and Duchess, then the Count and Countess, and finally the Baron and Baroness.

Once alone, Lucy pulled up his trousers and stepped from behind the curtain. Agnes entered as he approached the door.

“Where in the world have you been?” she asked.

“Here, ma'am. The others have gone to bed.”

“Yes, that Count mentioned they were done. Did it seem that they enjoyed themselves?”

“Yes.”

“And did they enjoy their dinner?”

“Yes.”

“Did they enjoy the tart?”

“Yes.”

“They found it tasty?”

“Yes.”

“Did they actually say as much?”

“No.”

“But you got the impression they liked it, is that it?”

“Yes,” said Lucy. An unpleasant thought came to him. “When did you speak with the Count, ma'am?”

“He came into the scullery just now. Looking for a nibble, he said.”

“Where is Klara?”

“She's also in the scullery, washing up.”

“Who else was with them?”

“No one.”

Lucy quit the room. Clear of the doorway, he started running. Agnes stayed behind, pouring herself a brandy, and sitting with a sigh on the settee. She sipped her drink, looking about with a wary expression. There was something about the ballroom that had always bothered her.