Under the Poppy (21 page)

When ever is, then? When this shithole’s shot to pieces under our fleeing feet? Christ, Mouse, with the mecs we can
—

You can,
stubbornly, as if to push him away while holding him close: always on the cusp, that unspoken threat of desertion, to bring his own flaring bitterness:
I am your puppet, I always have been. Why don’t you make me dance?
And the love then like combat, and nothing resolved…. Half a sigh, half a curse, he passes the smoky parlor for the peace and silence of his Cell, the waiting mecs whose needs are so easy to tend, whose desires are his own, who can wait forever for fulfillment, as he cannot: even Pan, there, in his casket, black silk across his eyes, did ever human clay lie so patient for the breath of life? as “
Fiat lux
,” Istvan murmurs, hoisting the stumpy body upright, the swing of black hair, the eyes rolling to meet his own half-lidded gaze, ah, if only his wider life were so simple to manipulate.

In the quiet parlor, account books open in the uncertain tallow glow, Rupert lights another cheroot, sits back as Decca recites her catechism, the Poppy’s financial status: sans most customers, who have either fled or grown too pinched or distracted to spend much on fucking, their money or their time; the surviving Alley whores are doing the best business in town. Supply prices are high, with little to purchase. Their stoutest patron, Jürgen Vidor, has not been seen nor offered a farthing, since—though Jennie’s name goes unspoken, though Decca has sincerely begged pardon:
I was mad to speak so, of course you had naught to do with her ending, she was dosing herself to death before Jürgen Vidor ever saw her
: what Vidor did, whatever he did, was not enough to kill Jennie or anyone, only to hurt, perhaps even after she was dead, such the urge to wound the man has…. The way he looks at Istvan frightens her. The way he looks at Rupert terrifies her.

Heart in her mouth all the brief while they met, in the gloaming dawn just past: she creeping like a burglar through the icy streets to the dreary hotel, silent man-at-arms outside the hot disorder of his rooms, burning half the hotel’s coal but still somehow a tomb, the cold alive in his gray-pouched eyes that promised nothing, gave nothing, the risk run for nothing, no good done for anyone at all: not Rupert, not Istvan—
Your brother, yes?
How did he know that? And what will he do with the knowledge?—nor herself or the Poppy, either: Will he return there as a patron? He did not say. She could not repeat her former fervent lie, that Istvan would go, soon or at all, though she swore that Rupert would stay, with all the passion of her own wish that it be true; did he credit this? He did not answer, only sat in his dark wrapper and watched, as if her panicked avowals were the gambols of a child, an unpretty, unskillful, unwanted child who ought never have sought so doggedly to deceive; then with a small, fastidious frown, as if they had been exchanging mots at a ladies’ tea, You ought always to wear black, Miss Decca. Pale colors make you look a corpse. Then thanked her for her visit, and sent her back down to the street.

But none of that is mentioned as she details to Rupert, pince-nez, steel nib, their current faltering situation, fiscal and otherwise: the damp has gotten deep into the walls, without heat enough to drive it out, so wood has warped and buckled, wallpaper is fatally ruined by rot. Omar has covered as best he can the shattered windows on the second floor, but those receiving rooms are now unusable. Liquor continues to be an issue, one can only water so much, but the gin at least is holding out. The soldiers are a trial, lice and blood and breakage, fighting amongst themselves and grabbing at the girls, though the General’s disbursements of coal and cash will keep head above water for the time being, and the military presence holds worse marauders at bay; it was so wise and far-seeing of Rupert to broker this arrangement but “I did nothing,” Rupert says, staring down through the gloom at the ash, “but assent” to the General’s wishes; it had seemed that the General might have asked before, certainly Vidor had all but promised so, but then he had delayed—

—until that night, Istvan’s night, their first shared show in oh, how long, how happy he was then…. And last night, Jesu, sulking and taunting, always on the brink of leaving, he knows in his heart that Istvan will leave, but when and with whom it is not possible yet to say. Though he has seen their looks in passing, Istvan and the General, recognition, connection, there is something there, he is sure of it. Perhaps that is why Georges came here after all…. But he will not be caught the same way, wrung to agony by grasping for quicksilver; he must just have what he can while he can, all he can, never all the heart can hold though he holds that strong and liquid body as long as ever he may, since it will have to last forever, whatever he can wring from these days. This time he will not follow. No, he will not follow again.

When Decca has finished and set aside her pen, she looks expectantly to him: for what? answers? comfort? He has neither. How tired she seems, worn as a ghost in her mended black silk, why so well-dressed on a day without business? but that is no business of his so he does not ask, lights a last cheroot as “Sleep, why don’t you,” rising from the foolish little petit-point chair, one of Mattison’s last traces, he and she some duke-and-duchess of the whores; how different her life would have been, had Mattison lived. His own, too. “It’s supposed to be a day of rest. Or have Puggy read to you, you used to like that.”

“He’s occupied.” With Lucy, she does not add. “Will you—”

“What?” Hand on the door, looking back and “Rest,” she says. “You seem—weary.” They gaze at one another, through the shadows, the cold. “Or at least eat something, have Velma fix you something, have you eaten aught today? Or only consumed those foul cigars?”

A faint smile. “I’ll soon stop, won’t I? There’ll be no more tobacco. No more of many things.”

He exits, alone into the dark hallway, the darker stairs, but he needs no candle or tallow, blindfolded he could find his way from roof to cellar and back again. One building, now his world…. Here the lobby, several soldiers scratching and lounging, the General is apparently elsewhere so they are free to sit and pass a bottle of, what, ginger beer, yellow-brown as soured piss. He feels them watching as he pulls at the theatre door, hears a stifled laugh: one day he may have to react to their silly discourtesy but today is not that day—

—so he passes into the wider, cleaner darkness before the stage, the tables and the bar, all empty tonight, in limbo, and he all alone in this domain he never sought nor wanted, does not want now, if only Istvan knew…. Gatekeeper, man-at-arms, himself alone to keep them safe: as demonstrated by the monstrous visit with Jürgen Vidor, the summons come abrupt as a royal command, to send him, armed and wary, to the ghost hotel, past the idiot in the hall, into his rooms where the man sat like a toad in a nest of leaves, the suite as disordered as his conversation: speaking first of the town, the war, how the outcome has never been in doubt though
There is always suffering,
musing over the rim of his glass, his everlasting Bordeaux.
But we shall see the end of it, you and I.
And then rambling off onto a tale of another town, some vague and violent happenstance endured to a successful end, though
Javier did not expect me to survive, no, nor his fond military friend.
That wet smile.
But I did, yes, I did. Do you know why? Because I am like you, Rupert.

Every word he says, every breath he sucks, reminding of Jennie, of Laddie, of the pin. The fucking pin.
And how is that, sir.

Oh, don’t call me “sir.” Don’t call me “Mr. Vidor.” Surely we are more sweetly acquainted than that.
Pouring; drinking. Wine on the tablecloth, a darkening seep.
You and I, Rupert, we are
sui generis,
part of nothing that surrounds us. And yet, I would see you in surroundings you deserve—in Paris, say, at the Objet d’Art: I’d savor your comments on that seraglio! Or a visit to Monsieur Nadar’s studio. His work is exquisite, I would much enjoy to have your portrait made…. Or Prague. You would surely relish Prague.
That voice, the overheated air of the rooms, the tipped and dusty bibelots—all like being in another’s darkened dream, and yet the dark has power in the waking world, his own world girdled by this man’s desire: It would be my immense pleasure to—host you, if you would but consent to undertake the journey. And assist those Under the Poppy, as well. Silence. One hand creeping to settle on his knee. Will you do it, Rupert? I am asking.

Those Under the Poppy; could he save them all, save Istvan, by the correct reply? No, he is not fool enough to credit that. The silence like a test of strength, that vain and staring need, until finally his own voice, dry:
My place is here.

Ah. Here beside Miss Decca—your sister. Or your mistress. But neither of those things are true, are they?

No.

The puppeteer, now. As close as a—brother, yes? Oh so very very close…. But what if one had to choose between them?

A different silence then, the red stillness of the alley, the jungle, two creatures facing one another, eyes and teeth—and his own hand flexing with the maddened urge to be done with it, one swift swipe to end all the feints and threats, part the man’s throat, blood and wine in mingled gush—but Vidor hand-in-glove with the General, with Mr. Arrowsmith, what would happen to the Poppy then? Will he live long enough himself, not to care for the God damned Poppy? so instead
I’ve been to Prague,
he said, and left, rapid down the empty stairs, through the smoky streets, back here to argue with Istvan, hectoring yet again to throw down the reins and go but
Why can you not see?
his own desperation.
They depend on me, here.

They do? And what of me?

Now he takes a breath, the musty air, rubs at his forehead. If only Jonathan were here, to play some music his mind could follow, instead of these circling thoughts: he was playing earlier, some sprightly air, what was it? “Cupid’s Garden,” yes,
Come with me to Cupid’s Garden,
trickling notes like a silver fountain in the sun, where was that fountain? that he and Istvan saw once on their travels, not real silver of course but it shone in the sun like Paradise, and the water was cold and clean…. Behind the bar, tucked beneath the locked and hoarded gin, is a smaller brandy bottle, filled now with whiskey the color of old gold. Perhaps that runs through the fountains of Cupid’s garden, if only one could find the way.

He leaves now via the stage, out a side passage, back to the hall, the stairs, heading it seems for his roost on the roof—then halts instead as if compelled before the Cell, pushing with the bottle’s lip at the door, to open it a finger’s width on Istvan, legs crossed, hair loose, bent studious as a boy over Pan Loudermilk, the world around him less than a dream as “Working?” says Rupert, on the threshold now; he makes a tired little smile. “Incorrigible. It’s a holiday, messire.”

Istvan smiles in return, rising to close the door, turn the flimsy lock and “I prefer,” he says, “to think of myself as steadfast.” Gently pushing aside Pan’s body, making room on the little cot. “And every fucking day a holiday.”

Black frost crawls the foggy skylight. The whiskey tastes of midsummer, of shining days that never end.

The father of the Misses van Symans, the Magistrate van Symans, is not a man much given to hyperbole, but even he will admit that Pan Loudermilk is
unique, not a puppet at all as one thinks of a puppet, much more a
Provocateur,
as he says chuckling to his friend Georges,
a true will-o’-the-wisp. His folly with the rector—! If he were a man, we’d have had him in irons. But as it is—

As it is, yes. How long does Hanzel bide with you?

Van Symans shrugs; the candle flames flicker in echo.
Eastertide, I’m thinking, or until Monica tires of him. Or I might carry him along with us to Paris,
which brings to General Georges an inner smile: how often the world grants our wishes, if only we will make them plain.

It is in Paris, then, that the General mounts his approach, that in the end proves absurdly easy: apparently young Hanzel, who in this city is known as Marcel, has anticipated his growing interest, is more than willing to further his ends as long as
No harm
, leaning back amongst the piled traps and boxes, the laces and apparatus of his vocation,
no harm comes to myself. Or to my mecs.

Of course.

Dressed like a fop, haughty as a lord, but the street boy is alive in his face, his eyes, his foxy smile as he lifts one of his dolls, a flaxen-haired thing with a smooth silk bosom, makes her bob a dainty curtsy, then abruptly lets her fall, drop to the floor with her head at an ugly angle, as if her neck has snapped and
Dead,
he says,
I’m no use to you. And I need my mecs to live, and move—

And have your being.

Again the white smile, slightly wider this time.
I see I shall be safe with you.
He reaches past the fallen doll for a slender bottle, some sort of green liqueur, it smells of rot and flowers as
The magistrate,
says Hanzel, Marcel, pouring into a pair of thumb-sized cups,
Magistrate van Symans, that is, is a man who likes to entertain. Last night,
par exemple,
he entertained some gentlemen from abroad; their accents, at least, were purely villainous; German accents. Do you also know these gentlemen?