The Stockholm Octavo (27 page)

Chapter Thirty-Eight
Delirium and Confession

Sources: E. L., M. F. L., Mrs. M., Mikael M., Pilo

WHEN MASTER FREDRIK ARRIVED
at my bedside, I had just awakened from a twenty-eight-hour delirium—the result of drinking a half-teacup full of Pilo's brew—filled with rampaging spirits of the living and the dead. Through it all was Mrs. Murbeck; she came and went around the clock with the tender kindness one might show her own child. It was during one of her visits that Master Fredrik arrived, introducing himself as my brother.

“Oh praise the Almighty; at last some family to attend Mr. Larsson's departure from this world. I have been searching high and low,” Mrs. Murbeck said, grasping Master Fredrik's hand and pulling him up the stairs.

“We are brothers in our lodge only,” Master Fredrik said, patting her warm, soft hand, “but it seems I am destined to be here at his passing.”

Mrs. Murbeck gave a sigh of relief. “I was fearful he would depart unnoticed by anyone but myself and the Ladies Prayer Society, over which I preside. I sent word to his place of employment, but only the Superior replied, and when he learned of Mr. Larsson's contagion, he did not dare to visit.”

“Have you not been afraid for your own safety, Mrs. Murbeck?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Like you, I feel it is my Christian duty. If God wishes us all dead, He will make it so.”

Master Fredrik nodded gravely at this. “It seems He may.” He removed his overcoat and gloves. “May I converse in private with Mr. Larsson?”

Mrs. Murbeck showed Master Fredrik in and offered to bring tea. He took a seat in the single chair next to my bed and nightstand, which made up the entire furnishings of the second room. Oddly, I remember nothing of Master Fredrik's attire that day. I saw only his face, usually cool and sharp but now flush with concern, his eyebrows in an arch of alarm. He waited to speak until he heard her footsteps on the stairs.

“She is not the cheeriest of nurses, but a devoted one at least,” he said bluntly, dropping his usual flowery speech. I simply nodded—speaking caused me pain. “Mr. Larsson, the situation appears grim. Is there anyone I should contact on your behalf? Any last requests? Unfinished business, as it were?”

I indicated that I should like to sit up, as I needed to move, the stiffness in my limbs feeling almost permanent. Master Fredrik stood and took me under the arms, lifting me easily, his hands and arms remarkably strong for a man of his pampered appearance. My armpits ached, but I felt my lungs fill more deeply in this new position. Master Fredrik stood at the chair beside my bed. “Shall I draw back the curtains? It is gloomy as the grave in here.”

I took a sip of water to test the condition of my throat. It was much improved, and so I drank the glassful and dared a few words. “Leave it dark. My eyeballs throb, and I have no need to see your face better. I know you well enough.”

“Well enough?” Master Fredrik laughed bitterly at this and sat. “So we imagine, Mr. Larsson, so we imagine. But as I traveled here today, I realized we are only connected by a thin paste of circumstance and some lodge rituals.” We sat in silence for a moment considering this truth. “I have known of your grave state since yesterday. I was at the German glove shop and overheard Mrs. Murbeck's description of her neighbor's dire predicament, a single gentleman from the Office of Customs and Excise, a solitary man who was often out at night. I inquired later after the man's name. When the glove maker said Emil Larsson, I claimed no knowledge of this person.”

I cleared my throat. “I would have done the same, minus the inquiry. But you are here now for some reason.”

Master Fredrik looked up toward the ceiling, as if some spirit hovered overhead urging his confession. “I will speak plainly. The Uzanne believes you have something that belongs to her, or at the very least knowledge of its whereabouts. Cassiopeia.” Master Fredrik watched my face carefully, but I closed my eyes and leaned back against the headboard.

“What leads The Uzanne to think I would have a fan?” I asked.

“Nordén said it.”

The image of the card, the five of Printing Pads, came to me: two men and one woman. The Nordéns. “The Magpie!” I whispered. Master Fredrik looked alarmed, as if I was delirious. “Christian Nordén.”

“Not Christian. It was the brother, Lars. He wished to please The Uzanne. And to impress the ripe plum, no doubt,” he said.

I had learned too late, and the Magpie had played against me. “I never thought of Lars Nordén,” I said, sinking back down.

“No one has thought of Lars Nordén. Until now,” Master Fredrik said. He looked slowly around my sparsely furnished room. “So, Emil, what do you know of this Cassiopeia?”

It seemed foolish now to deny it completely. “The fan was lost in a card game at Mrs. Sparrow's. The story circulates with a good deal of laughter in gambling circles, to have such a rich lady act such a poor loser.”

“And does Sparrow have it still?”

“No. She thought the fan bewitched in some way.” I coughed and poured out another cup of water, realizing I was parched. “But I might trace her whereabouts for you.”

“It would be to our mutual advantage,” Master Fredrik said, his voice quavering.

“What is the reward?”

“The reward? The saving of several lives will be the reward: mine, for one, along with my wife and boys.”

“Is she going to kill the Linds for a fan?” I laughed, then was seized again by a fit of coughing.

“If I fail to retrieve this fan, I will be exposed. Exposed and ruined.”

“Exposed as what?”

Master Fredrik stood and looked through the curtains down to the street, as if The Uzanne might have followed him here. “I am the Town's preeminent calligrapher. It has taken many years to perfect my art, and my methods are unorthodox.” I shrugged, for this hardly seemed grounds for ruin. “When I began my career, I struggled to be consistent over the course of a job, sometimes as many as two hundred invitations or cards. While the first dozen might be perfectly feminine and light, a man's hand might overtake the style and I would be forced to start over. So I developed a strategy and imagined myself as the author—the host or hostess, as it were. Imagined where they were sitting, what they were thinking, eating, and wearing. It was magic, Mr. Larsson, and my art blossomed.”

“The use of one's imagination can hardly be considered unorthodox for an artist,” I said.

“True, but in my quest for mastery, I adopted the practice of dressing the part. This was quite a simple matter to begin with: I would wear my best wig and a fine waistcoat to be a gentleman, a bit of Mrs. Lind's jewelry for a lady. But as my clients increased in stature, this process became more elaborate, and more important to my success. I have been The Uzanne's devoted servant for many years. I have translated her being into ink on paper, perfumed the pages, and moistened the envelopes, sealed them, delivered her missives myself if need be. I made it my business to become her. Mrs. Lind enjoyed all the fruits of this passion, and encouraged me to be as perfect in my appearance as each letter on the page. I acquired an extensive wardrobe of shifts, stays, panniers, petticoats, robes, gowns, skirts, coats, vests, and various accessories, which Mrs. Lind altered to fit. I keep them in an armoire in my workroom, under lock and key.” He paced now, arms behind his back, as if debating in the Academy. “I only work in costume now. I wear uniforms and men's court costume; I even got hold of an old Senate robe. But I also sport dancing shoes with ribbons and red heels, rouge my lips and paste beauty marks on my chin, don wigs and panniers, and spritz
eau de lavande
around the room. It is an immersion of the spirit.”

The image of his Octavo card came to mind, the man and the woman sitting together beneath the flowering tree. “I wondered at an elaborate armoire in a workroom,” I said, “and the large pier glass.”

“You have one, too!” he said, gesturing to the front room.

“Mine is used to practice handling the cards. It is the best way to learn,” I said.

“You see?” He wagged a finger at me. “You have a woman's tool for your work as well.” I was too weak to either laugh or look offended, but in truth felt a little of both, and he saw it on my face. I had seen many a bawdy skit in the taverns featuring “maidens” of the most unlikely sort, and at the most refined masquerades this practice was welcomed. Not to mention what I had seen in the parlors on Baggens Street. “This is no perversion,” Master Fredrik said firmly. “It is the secret of my genius.”

It seemed a private and harmless method to me; even Mrs. Lind was in on the trick. And yet many would be horrified, especially those hiding such practices themselves. The consequences would be dire. “It is not my business how you conduct yours,” I said. “But why are you telling me?”

“So you will know the spurious grounds of The Uzanne's threat, which reaches past me to Mrs. Lind and to our boys, who have no knowledge of my methods.” He sat once more and leaned in close. “And I confide in you because one can say anything to a dying man.”

A chill brought a rush of gooseflesh down my arms, and I watched the light from the votive candle cast a dancing shadow on the wall. I could not take my eyes from this shadow, which took on the figurative shape of a young lady, her movements lithe and graceful. The shadow stopped by my bedside and sat, as if on some invisible chair, waiting for me to speak. I lay back upon the pillow, overtaken by a fit of tremors. The shadow figure rose from the invisible chair in alarm, a swarm of snaking shadows rising to entrap her. I was too late. I had not found my eight. I cried out and tried to rise from my bed, but was overcome.

“Do not leave me, Mr. Larsson! Not yet,” Master Fredrik said, standing with such speed that the chair fell backward on the floor. “I will fetch Mrs. Murbeck and the doctor.”

“No, no,” I said, my extremities shaking. “Sit with me, please. Just sit.”

Master Fredrik nodded solemnly and righted the chair but did not sit. He leaned over me, both fear and concern in his face. “Do you have any last wishes?”

The shadow sat once more and smoothed her skirts, and began to dissolve as the candle suddenly flared up. “Tell her I failed to find my eight, and I am sorry,” I whispered.

“Tell who?” he asked.

“Sparrow.”

I dozed on and off for untold hours. The strip of light behind the curtains disappeared to black and then brightened to blue, only to fade again. There was a brief time when the windows were flung open to air the room and the chamber pot was emptied. Mrs. Murbeck came with tea and dinner and breakfast, for the trays were there when I woke. A troop of acrobats leapt from the corner and hung from the sconces while my nightshirt was changed for me. A small brown bird flew in circles around the plaster rosette in the center of the ceiling, which bloomed into a pale, watching face. Then this vision sunk into itself and left a dark foamy octagon in its wake. The votive candle on my nightstand grew into a lantern and then a lamppost. The shadow of the girl returned and sat beneath it, fanning herself with my Butterfly fan. I saw that Master Fredrik stood beside her, and it was he who held the fan. I coughed and called his name, and both shadow and fan disappeared. He turned swiftly to me, his eyes red and watery—from illness or crying I could not say. “What day is it?” I asked.

“The nineteenth.”

“You have been with me for three days?”

Master Fredrik blew his nose with a mighty honk and seated himself beside me once more. “You may wonder at my vigil here, Emil It was not a prudent choice, but I felt compelled—first by the hope that I might retrieve The Uzanne's fan and save myself. Then by the realization that I needed time to consider exactly what, or who, I meant to save.” He took a book from the nightstand. “Mrs. Murbeck has left her Bible. Shall I read a story?” he asked.

I reached for the glass of water, which I drank gratefully, then closed my eyes. “I would prefer something uplifting.”

“All right, then. I confess that I have thought a great deal about Carl Michael Bellman these last three days.”

I lay back upon the cushion. A bawdy tavern song would be a cheery alternative to “The Lord is my shepherd.”

“One summer night, many years back, two new acquaintances invited me to a lavish midnight
supé
on Strand Way, and I was eager to impress them,” Master Fredrik began. “We waited an hour for a boat on Skeppsbron Quay and finally a rowboat madam drew up and in a fine humor for once, her craft rocking pleasantly on the blue. The lantern that hung from the bow winked at itself in the water, and the air was cool and refreshing. We were about to set off when a group of four men hallooed to see if they might join us, as the hour was late and boats were few.

“The rowboat madam began to curse, saying the load was too much and she and ten devils could not row us across. I did not want my fine friends to be subjected to this ragtag group of drunkards, and sided with the rower in most insulting terms. One of the interlopers, a drunken man of indeterminate age, stuck his snout into my face, a fog of rum fumes escaping from his open maw. He carried a cittern under his arm and he held himself steady by grasping my shoulder. ‘
I am the king's own troubadour,'
he said
, ‘and will compose a song for you as payment.'

“My companions were even more snobbish than me but seemed amused by this drunken musician. They found enough money to make the madam happy, and we piled into the boat, which tilted near to capsize at first. In time we found our balance, and glided over the water in silence except for the rhythmic splash and creak of the oars. The rum-soaked man began to tune his cittern, and when the vibrating strings held the proper notes, he began to play and sing. His voice was magnified by the water and dampness of the air; each note existed as a star in the velvet night. Even the rowboat madam stopped to listen, and we rocked in time to his song. At one point, we all joined in, making a harmony I have never heard since. Looking up into the sky of the blue hours, the summer sun hovering on the horizon, the boat was suspended in its own universe, and the music was inscribed in some secret place in my heart.”