Under the Poppy (28 page)

—as the thought of Istvan prods him onward, past Jürgen Vidor’s grumble, “A somewhat dubious return—” but whatever else he meant to add swallowed in surprise as Rupert leans closer still, to place a hand upon his knee, knead the bone and skin there and “Wait,” low. “Watch but a moment, I pray you—”

—while Pearl, bare-breasted, is fully ravished by the Erl-King, the spectacle thrilling the staring man-at-arms, who creeps to the lip of the stage to watch her dress torn from her, her lovely hair sweeping the dust, the plague-masked handler implacable above. The piano, helpless to do more, chants more urgently,
te-la-te
! All eyes save Rupert’s are on the tussle, no one marks Laddie standing now behind the screen, now behind the chair, just behind Rupert who rises lightly from his seat as “No,” Pearl’s voice suddenly shrill, authentic with fear, “
please
no—”

—as “Only watch,” says Rupert, his lips to Jürgen Vidor’s ear, “for me—”

—while from the opposite darkness comes another figure, somewhat slower, cowled in black and bearing with it a genial Pan Loudermilk, spiffed and grinning, his neck wrapped in gauze and tied in red string and “It will only hurt for a moment,” says Pan, stretching out one hand to Pearl who paddles backward with her arms, looses a shriek—

—as Rupert puts a hand to Jürgen Vidor, tilts his head, leaning low to give what the Poppy has always given, the illusion of granted desire—

—as Laddie lifts the creped chin further, to kiss Jürgen Vidor warmly, forcefully upon the mouth—

—while Rupert reaches from the other side, knife in hand, to cut his throat back to the bone: the rush of blood, the reek of gin, and “Caliban and sawdust,” cries Pan Loudermilk over Pearl’s commotion, “a bit of fun!” while the man-at-arms turns, belated and confused, to see two Ruperts flanking his master: What can it be? Some strange puppet apparition? Nothing in this place is as it seems—

—but past his visible and untouched revolver, he too has a knife, a wolf-hunter’s knife that comes so easily to his hand that no one sees it until he is there before the man in the chair, whose wide and dazzled eyes seem to urge him to action, whose blood has splashed the twin men, which one the murderer? But that is too much to cipher now, so he makes a feint at both, Laddie shoved stumbling backward by Rupert who turns, ready with his own knife—

—as the Chinese screen topples suddenly sideways, striking him, Puggy behind it, Omar behind him—

—but Puggy the one who takes the cut, the wolf-hunter’s aim less sure than his force, Omar breaks the man’s neck with one stout crack but too late, the damage is done. Puggy collapses to his knees, a dreadful gush down his shirtfront, his belly, down to the floor as the players abandon all roles and leap offstage. Lucy rips free the plague mask, Jonathan grips Pearl, who takes one look, then buries her head in his shoulder. Laddie thrusts his own torn shirt into Omar’s helpless hand—“Bind him!”—as Rupert, on his knees, supports Puggy, his round eyes already glazing, while Istvan sheds Pan Loudermilk to clamber down, swift and clumsy, to lay his hot hand on Rupert’s shoulder, and lever himself to crouch beside: one on the left hand and one on the right, as Puggy bleeds out, pietà, in their arms.

Velma Byrd

Brigands was what they told the mayor. Brigands, likely the same ones who hit Mister Istvan, come back all stealthy to cut the throats of Puggy, and Mr. Vidor and his man, and anyone else they could reach before they was chased back onto the road by Mister Rupert and Omar, and nobody to be witness because it was too dark to see in all the struggling. So that was the tale.

The mayor and Elwin Franz come from their bolt-hole, wherever it was, because it was Mr. Vidor killed, the old general’s friend, or contrariwise not such a friend after all since no one in the town or from the army made no stink about those “brigands,” or tried to find them; they all knew how matters stood. But since there was money to be had, well, the saying is it makes the world go ’round. They shared it out, all of them, the fat lump they found in Mr. Vidor’s pocket, and Elwin piped up
They must of known he had this, those robbers
—
that
made everyone happy. And Jack, who drives the wagon, got to keep those fancy boots, so he was happy, too.

It was a drama anyroad, between their made-up stories and Pearl and Lucy weeping buckets, all sentimental over Puggy, who they dressed up in a cracking suit, brown velvet and a red silk cravat—more of Mr. Vidor’s things, I’m thinking, nothing left here is so fine—and set him up for the night for us to pray over, or cry or whatever we would. Omar started drinking an hour past the murders, and hasn’t slowed much since, drank Elwin’s homemade liquor all the way through the fire that burned Puggy and his velvet to a crisp, a waste, again to my thinking, but I never said a word. The ground’s like iron, no way to bury him and anyroad
He’d prefer the flames,
said Mister Istvan.
A far more theatrical finish.… Good night, sweet Puggy prince
, himself half-dead and swaying on his feet, arm swollen up like a club but Lucy milked some pus, she said, and nothing blackened yet, so he should do until they come to Victoria, or wherever they may be bound…. They burned up Mr. Vidor, too, and that chucklehead guardsman, though in a different fire.

Besides that lump of banknotes, there was a kind of letter from Mr. Vidor, but no one read it save Mister Rupert, and Mister Istvan, too, of course; Lucy might have heard them talking of it, Lucy now what Miss Decca used to be, their lady’s maid, but naturally she’d never share a word with me Even if I knew, all scandalized when I asked her. That’s private. And likely nasty, too, that man was a nasty trick, ask Laddie sometime—

—who got more than a few of those banknotes, too, and a most lovely piece of jewelry, gold and pearl, a snake curled around on a stick. Just goes to show, even if you’re a whore, if you play onstage, you rate with them; if you don’t, you don’t. Carry their slops and clean their messes, cook their food day in and day out…. And what will Laddie do with the thing anyroad but find a way to sell it, and smoke whatever he gains? Laddie is a fool—and Pearl too, see her moony smile as she traveled off with Jonathan to set up housekeeping, call themselves Mister and Missus, who to know the difference or guess she spent her life as a whore since
We’ll leave all this behind,
she says to Lucy, wiping her eyes for Puggy while they sparkled for what she thinks she’s going to gain, as if a cripple like Jonathan is able to make a fortune in Victoria or anyplace else. And if she’d stayed, she could have had herself the mayor! Pearl’s always been a fool.

Miss Decca’s no fool, though, and never was: with that pinprick heart of hers she was made to be a madam. And since that Miss Suzette is gone, like Lucy said,
One dies, one’s born,
since Miss Decca says she’ll open again as soon as winter’s past, now that there’s money enough to wait it out, besides the flour and peas and sorghum we had hidden off the pantry, that she swore she’d kill me if I said a word—
It’s there in case of famine,
though how we could have been more hungry I don’t know, without the army we’d have had to stoop and eat the horses…. Omar for her watch dog and Walter Porter, that old flint, as front-of-the-house man, from the Gaiety’s grave; Laddie for a bum-boy and because he reminds her of Mister Rupert; and whatever girls she can scrape up from the Alley, or come homing back to the Gaiety, whichever.
May be I’ll bring back the old name,
I heard her say to Omar, pouring him a drink of tea, or whatever was in that cup, the two of them all cozy-like at her table upstairs.
The Rose and Poppy, what do you think?

Ought to call it for Puggy,
Omar’s sniveling: does he think it was his fault, that Puggy got chopped? Miss Decca made some noises of how they’d name the stage for him, the Theatre Guillame, and Omar all nodding and wiping his eyes. You’d think he was sweet on Puggy, the way he carries on, or sweet on her, to stay at all; who knows? But she’s more money than just her share of those notes, I do know that, I saw the messenger when he come, that hatchet-faced fellow came once before: I do remember, I don’t forget a face. Money from the old general meant for Mister Rupert, I think, that I think she kept, stuffed up between her pillows, unless she shared it out and sent it to him, like he shared the gold in the safe with her, but who’s to say?

They left in a hurry, I’ll say that, Puggy’s cinders barely cool, Mister Rupert so anxious to be gone with his will-o’-the-wisp, his sweetheart: all worried for his fever, and the cold outside, and whether he should walk or ride, it truly made a person ill to see. It made Miss Decca white, I know, but she kissed him goodbye all the same—Mister Rupert, that is, not her foxy brother, who sat bundled up with his toys and traps in that cart they cobbled up for him, Mister Rupert and Jonathan, and said nothing to anyone at all, except Lucy—
More dope, Puss, if you’ve got it
—and she as keen as any of them to be gone, though angry that the puppet dolls were tinkered with, or ruined, or something, going on and on about
Miss Lucinda, who’d do such an awful thing!
as if it were a living girl got ripped. Something about playing makes you soft in the head, I’m thinking.

For me, I never meant to leave, not that they ever asked me. I guess they bet they’d buy a slavey anywhere they landed, and they bet right. But this town is where I plan to stay. When Vera left, it was with my Godspeed, sister or no sister she’d fence your eyeteeth if she could pry ’em out, she was worse’n that junkie Jennie any day. But Nancey didn’t go so far, and once the hotel comes open again—and it will—she’ll be back as housemaid, eyes-and-ears there as I was, and am still, eyes-and-ears here, for whoever wants to pay for what we see and hear. Though we won’t find many as wicked, I’ll say, as that old general, or as generous as Mr. Silverfish, or whatever his true name was. That one there,
he
was a gentleman. Wish his like would come again.

“They say,” the General sympathetic, “that gingerroot helps, thin-shaved gingerroot held on the tongue,” but Mr. Arrowsmith shakes his head, mouth dry: gingerroot, dear Lord. He is at best an indifferent sailor, and the crossing had been more than rough,
mal de mer
from raised anchor to dockside, it is as if he feels the sea inside him even now, days later in his own sitting room. His sweet Liserl, a portrait in pearls and palest blue, serves him his customary Assam, then withdraws with a gentle curtsey for the General, who smiles as she leaves, twists the silver ring on his thumb and “At least you did not suffer in vain,” pushing two-fingered across the tiny table a wrinkled dispatch. “From Gottsburgh. Rawsthorne is already kicking up his heels.”

Mr. Arrowsmith sips gratefully at his astringent tea. “He ought to be feeling frolicsome, just now. Especially since he keeps half Vidor’s cut.”

The General smiles his odd smile, takes a seat on the plush settee. “A happy choice of terms…. That fool Redgrave was certain, you said?”

“ ‘I saw his neckbone.’ His words. You’ve asked me that once already, Hector.”

“We were certain once already.” Again the General twists his ring. “He always was a melodramatic bastard, it’s fitting he breathed his last in a theatre. Which is why I’d expected some communiqué, some last poetic fillip. You say Redgrave found nothing at all in his rooms, or on his person?”

“The man is hard-pressed to find the moon in the sky. On that, Vidor and I were in perfect accord. Though he did locate the money.” Another restorative sip of Assam. “Why should he not be a fool? It’s kept him safe so far.” His gaze rises from the steaming cup to the calm beauty of the sitting room, the long narrow windows fronting Goldsmith Street, the ivory settee where the General rests like a wolf on a silken cushion. “Safe from the likes of us, at any rate. Unlike his patron. And Hanzel.”

“Come now.” The General still is smiling, but it is a different smile. “No evil was ever meant for Hanzel. He was—”

“Bait, yes. To draw his cavalier… Do you imagine the worm on the fishing-hook feels pain?”

Now the General’s smile has vanished. “You’re in a strange humor. We did as we always do, took what was to hand, and used it. And no true harm was done to either, and not a little good. Did we not keep them fed and breathing, all through the scuffle? And Bok took his people safely on to Victoria, then he and Hanzel went their own way, after a stop at the leech’s. So all is well.”

Mr. Arrowsmith nods. Neither speak for a lengthened moment, then “Did you know,” says Mr. Arrowsmith, in a lighter tone, “that his Christian name is Istvan?’

“Who, Hanzel?” The General’s smile returns. “Why, it suits him. A gloss on the Greek, isn’t it, ‘Stephanos’ means ‘crowned.’ Did he tell you that?”

“His sister did.”

“The once and future madam? My courier much mislikes her—said she’d offered not a taste of free liquor, even though he’d handed her a bounty.” The General shrugs. “She waters her tea, too.”

Mr. Arrowsmith leans back in his chair, carved yew, scrolled with willow leaves to match the china’s design. “ ‘You are a hard man, my lord, you reap where you did not sow.’ She could work that up as a sampler, in her idle hours. Though it’s merely good business sense.” He smiles slightly to himself. “She does not stint on a bargain, I’ll testify to that…. Do you know, Hector, where Hanzel, pardon, Istvan, may be now?”

“I do not, and that’s a fact. Though I’d like to. There are many fine uses to which that young man might be put, he and his mecs. And Mr. Bok, too. A stout campaigner,” as Liserl reenters, with another graceful curtsey, to invite the gentlemen to walk in to supper, a small but choice repast of clear soup and tender beef, served with a bottle of very old Bordeaux. After their meal, and his gracious compliments for Liserl’s hospitality, the General departs with his young attaché, bound on an errand unspecified: to supervise the seeds of a new conflict? or savor the fruits of the last? How would it differ? Either way, the wheels turn, the night wind courses past the carriage windows, the silver ring glints like starlight when Andrew lights the General’s cheroot. At length, the young man dozes, for the ride is a long one; but the General’s eyes never close.