The Watchtower (7 page)

Will gave an imitation of following the game's fluctuating fortunes but primarily observed the first-floor hubbub. The swath of sound included everything from giggles to arguments; the quality and cost of attire male and female varied widely; an endlessly abundant supply of liquor was evident, though he couldn't tell where the serving table might be; all in all the chaotic party looked as if it had been planned by pulling in random passersby from a busy London street, no more. It wasn't a theater crowd or a rough crowd, an intellectual or a degenerate crowd, a devout or an anarchical crowd, though here and there individuals of all these stripes and many others could be distinguished. Even the footman, a dark-skinned Moor liveried in royal purple, defied easy characterization. In fact, he seemed the most regal of all the occupants. It was a flotsam-of-London, top-to-bottom crowd. Will grew more agitated as he perceived that the nature of this party contradicted the picture the poet had drawn for him, of personally welcoming him to London--surely a more intimate setting could have been found for their reunion!

Then on some mysterious signal the crowd fell silent throughout the house. Will put his cards down on the table, got up without even a nod to his fellow players, and followed the direction of staring eyes into a large central room dominated by a wide staircase. The going was still tangled and impeded, but he was able to employ the stealth and steel of muscle that had stood him in deft stead as a fencer to maneuver all the way to the staircase railing. A roar of acclaim went up as, Will observed, the poet andlly weadiant-eyed, dark-haired lover strode out on the second-floor landing, basking with smiles in the applause. Will managed to catch the eye of the poet, who responded with a warm wave and a twinkle in his eye. The poet whispered to his lover, who glanced down at him with a welcoming smile as well.

Meeting Marguerite's gaze, Will experienced a transformative shock. He felt at once as if he had known her all his life
and
that he had never before beheld such beauty. Love for her surged through him, a love so complete it were as if he had physically merged with her. Not the simple merge of lovemaking, but a consummate merge as if their atoms and electricity had intertwined, their veins and brain cells, muscles and bones. For a dizzying instant, he felt as if a second person were within him, filling him with an unspeakable elation that nearly caused him to faint. Then for an even more fleeting instant he was actually inside her mind, gazing down at himself from the second-floor landing and seeing a young man whose face had been transported by ecstasy.

In that moment of twin vision he noticed something else. The Moorish footman was also looking up at Marguerite with a similar expression on his face, only
his
passion was mixed with something else. Envy and hatred. Yet, Will wasn't sure of whom.

Then he retreated back inside a shaky self. But the upheaval inside him was transcendent. They were each other's destiny. Not only had he encountered the great love of his life but he had learned something crucial about himself, Will realized. He could fly--not literally, but spiritually. His soul was not bound to his own flesh the way a living person's should be. It could escape his flesh, as the souls of the dead did. But he wasn't dead. He was very much alive.

Will fought with himself to suppress this wild reaction. The poet was important to him, and his bonding in such a way with the poet's love was worse than backstabbing, it was a sort of treason. Observed in another, it would have disgusted him. But he was in the grip of some unnatural force and could not suppress his emotions.

The sound of two cymbals clashing came from Will's left. The timing must have been choreographed: the poet and Marguerite began to address the crowd from the top of the stairs.

"Heartfelt greetings, friends, without further ado ... my beloved Marguerite and I have jointly composed a marriage sonnet by way of thanking you all for coming. Let us recite it now."

"Marriage sonnet!" an old man in a shabby black robe standing near Will muttered, with the faintest trace of an Italian accent. "Let the man be free of the wife he already has! Or is bigamy not a crime in sinful London?"

Several people standing near him hushed him impatiently. Will caught a glimpse of a gleaming crucifix around the man's neck as he turned his head to glare in turn at his critics with piercing brown eyes, then returned his sharp gaze to the podium. The man's hostility disturbed Will, despite the deep inconvenience for his new emotions of any nuptials between the poet and Marguerite. Will resolved to keep an eye on him.

The poet began:

The sweetest words I've ever heard are those

with which my Marguerite professes love

for me eternally; this great crowd shows

how much you too are moved and so I'll wave

in gratitude that you've come here today.

The poet had fastened his gaze on Marguerite while reciting, but now he faced the throng and waved in a grand manner, to which there was an enthusiastic response with a few exceptions, such as that of the footman, who whispered to a man dressed in rainbow hues, "Such a union never will last!"
What impertinence!
Will thought, focusing instead on the familiar sound of the poet's voice. Even though he himself had been struck with desire for Marguerite, he would never dare to interrupt the poet's recitation. His voice had a ringing clarity, indeed majesty, to it Will had not heard in private, and he did not wonder at it given what depth of inspiration he now knew Marguerite could inspire.

Marguerite continued:

Our love's a brighter sun than summer noon's,

and yet as soft as a slow breeze in May,

and will survive in rhymes amidst the ruins

of fortunes, mansions, nations. Let us cheer

you all for your great warmth--that you've come here--

Will swam in the flow of Marguerite's voice as in the gentlest of rivers, near oblivious to the joy she showed in this proclamation of her and the poet's love for each other. Somehow, he was managing to disregard that formidable obstacle for the moment.

Marguerite went on:

--to celebrate our union. Love has won!

The poet stepped forward to conclude, smiling at Marguerite:

Our marriage bed awaits, if not tonight

then soon: our flesh and blood will be as one;

enough of this world's darkness. Love is light!

To renewed applause, the poet and Marguerite then began a ceremonial descent down the stairs, greeting the partygoers, especially those they recognized, with a regal yet congenial air. Will leaned forward over the stair railing so that he could greet the poet and be introduced to Marguerite, but the couple went in different directions midway down the stairs, as if carried off by conflicting currents, so that in anoher minute Will found himself nervously bowing to Marguerite alone, taking and gently kissing her small, finely gloved hand.

"Wondrous lady, I am Will Hughes, tutored by your beloved and now come to London to join the King's Players." He gazed into Marguerite's eyes as he rose from his bow. Meeting Marguerite's gaze was like diving into two deep pools of blue-green light. He felt himself again swooning with ecstasy. As he regained his composure, he saw a flash of recognition in Marguerite's eyes and waited hopefully for something more--a profound look, expressive words, some other reassurance--but she just nodded with an amiable smile and appeared about to move on to her next congratulator. Was it possible she did not feel what he was feeling? Had the flash of recognition simply been her recalling his name? Or maybe, he tried to reassure himself, she was more adept at masking elation than he was?

Perhaps in response to his perturbed expression, she did add, "Yes, Will, I have heard wonderful things about you. I am very pleased to meet you." But she moved on.

"Wait, please!" he called, catching awkwardly at her sleeve. "I must see you--"

She glanced sharply back at him.

"I mean, the two of you ... in a less hectic setting and as soon as possible? May I pay a call on you tomorrow? Or Tuesday?"

"I am sure there will be an occasion for it," Marguerite said distantly. She seemed to reflect for a moment, then glanced more directly into his eyes again. Will thought he saw a tremor pass over her features. But if it had, she retreated from it.

"I must go," she said with formal coldness. "We will send you a note."

"I know you have something to tell me," Will said with an uncomfortable smile.

Marguerite's expression grew pained, and she moved on to a large woman in a flowery dress, who held out both hands to her in a warm greeting. Will turned away then in despair, finding the front door with much more ease than he had found the stairs, and leaving the party without bothering to seek out the poet. His elation had turned to ashes with Marguerite's final chill words.

Darkness had fallen outside, broken only by intermittent torchlight along Lyme Street, as if Will had plunged into a pool of gloom emanating from his mood. He could not believe that Marguerite had not felt what he'd felt, but it appeared to be true! Why had she rushed away like that? And what did her pained look mean? Of course, things might be awkward among the three of them for a while if his and Marguerite's feelings were truly aligned, but the poet's plays were filled with more entangled circumstances than theirs that were nonetheless overcome by the parties to them. This woman wasn't one of the inane flirtations at Swan Hall! She was his love and his destiny. He would suffer unbearably over her if she couldn't be his.

So engrossed in this view of possible heartbreak was he that he didn't feel the intrusion of a hand in his satchel until it had begun to withdraw. Whirling, he caught the pickpocket by the arm. It was a young boy--one who had been at e party whom the others had called Finn. Round eyes blinked in a round face beneath a tattered cap.

"I wasn't stealin' nothin', sir, I was putting something in." The falsetto voice made Will look twice at his captive. He might be a boy ... or might be a girl, he couldn't say. He snatched the cap from the pickpocket's head ... and was startled to discover pointed ears.

"If you look, you'll see I've given you the address where they stay. Go there tomorrow morning; the poet will be out. And do not delay. She is smitten by his words but she will be drawn to your blood."

"But how do you--"

The pointed-ears waif twisted out of Will's grip and vanished into the shadows. Swearing, Will dug in his satchel, expecting that his money would be gone, but found that everything was intact. In addition was a scrap of paper with an address written on it: 39 Rood Lane, written in a flowing script that Will was instantly sure must belong to his beloved Marguerite. It was far too fine and feminine a hand for the androgynous waif. Will kissed the paper, imagining that he kissed the fingertips of she who had written it.

His steps were much lighter all the way back to the inebriated din of Mrs. Garvey's tavern. The occasional torch was more than a match for the blackened gloom of London's night. He was in love, so swept up in his passion that he did not notice the old Italian priest, who had eavesdropped on his encounter with Finn, following him back to his lodgings.

5

The Labyrinth

I slept late the next morning--past nine--for the first time since I'd arrived. I awoke to the sounds of guests eating their breakfasts in the courtyard garden. When my father had called the Hotel des Grandes Ecoles to get me a room on such short notice, Madame Weiss, the owner, said she would of course find a way to fit in the daughter of their dear old friend Margot James. On arrival I found that "fitting me in" meant giving me a ground-floor room the size of a largish walk-in closet. But, though I imagined that the ground floor wouldn't be everybody's choice, I found I rather liked it. It was just around the corner from the kitchen, where I could get hot water for tea at all hours of the night, and I was close to the pretty garden.
So
close that I had to keep the shutters of one window closed because it looked out over the little tables where breakfast was served. The other window faced the side garden, which was gated off from the other guests. A black iron grating (but no window screen) was over the window to keep out intruders, and a tall, leafy sycamore blocked the view from the neighboring buildings. The huge tree took up the entire view, filling the room with dappled green light and birdsong. Lying in the double bed that took up most of the room, I felt as though I were floating in a rustic gazebo, an effect reinforced by the room's blue toile wallpaper featuring frolicking shepherds and shepherdesses, grazing deer, nymphs, and fauns.

This morning the room was also filled with the smell of coffee and buttery croissants, and the voices of two small American children discussing what they wanted to do that day.

"The puppet show!" the little girl shouted.

"The sailboats!" her brother insisted.

"Another day at the Luxembourg," the mother sighed.

"I'll take them," the father said. "You go shopping in the Marais and we'll meet you for falafels on the rue Rosiers."

Give the man the Father of the Year award, I thought as I got dressed in navy capris, a crisp white, buttoned shirt, and slip-on canvas shoes. The puppet show and the boat basin at the Luxembourg sounded fun, but I was headed in the opposite direction to find someone called Monsieur Lutin at the Jardin des Plantes. I checked my outfit in the mirror, wondering if it was chic enough to meet a Frenchman in, and decided to add an Indian print scarf around my neck.