by Sarah Smith
“Look at ’em, poor little vermin,” the Citadel horsemaster said, taking his pipe out of his back pocket. “Wanting to get into action.”
“Will they go to Morocco?” Reisden asked.
“Unless this Morocco thing comes home to us. What do you say, Austrian, is this Wilhelm’s excuse to invade France?”
“I hope not.”
“Me, too. Victory, glory, that’s for the films.”
Reisden looked out over Arras, to the northeast. He could see the old stables and the cattle market, somnolent in the sun.
The horsemaster puffed at his pipe and grinned. “You know what they call this place? The Beautiful Useless.”
“Why?”
“On the wrong side of the city, isn’t it? No good to protect the road to the frontier. Maybe Vauban expected an invasion from Paris.” The horsemaster chuckled.
“Why not refortify Montfort? Isn’t it a better location, closer to the frontier, close to the Arras road?”
“Would’ve taken too much work, I guess,” the horsemaster said, not even needing to think. “It’s got no armory, no stables, no barracks, no place to practice your drill nor put your firepower; no town, just two or three farmhouses by the walls, one bar, and no whores to speak of.”
“So when the Germans take the Arras road—”
“We’ll be shelling them from back here. Hit Arras, like as not.”
So there was a military secret, at least. There should have been a line of defense on the Arras road.
Except for Montfort, there wasn’t.
***
André reacted to Sabine’s presence by overworking himself and his actors. They worked all day on the sun side of the hill. The canvas diffusers stank, and the fresh paint on the sets, and the car engine that powered the lights. At the end of scenes they whipped off their wigs, which were hot as fur hats, and drank bottled water, and sweated and stank. The carbon flaked off the arc lamps and irritated their eyes. They wore green glasses against the glare.
André became obsessive about light. He diffused the sunlight with curtains he ripped from the windows. He directed it with mirrors. He had had a reputation for being a considerate director. Not now. “Faces are only an excuse for shadows,” and he worked Reisden and the other actors until the ochre ran down their faces and their shirts sweated to dark rose.
As far as Reisden could tell, André was not sleeping at all. At night Reisden would sit with him while he worked on cutting the film. André had new ideas about that, too, and he would not trust the cutting to anyone else. “What about your wife, André?” Reisden asked.
“What about yours, Reisden?” André said.
Reisden would go back to Perdita and Toby to find them asleep, uncomfortable on their straw mattresses. In the dark he would lie awake, itching from the straw, then get up, take a lantern, and explore yet another tower.
Gehazy had picked up Reisden’s letter. But Gehazy didn’t reply.
Reisden was supposed to find the secret. He was supposed to send André to Katzmann. He’d succeeded at neither.
“What are you thinking of?” Perdita asked him. “You’re very quiet.”
“Nothing, love.”
She was very quiet, too. She wore Gilbert’s teardrop; he hoped because it was too valuable to leave around, and not to remind him of unfinished business, but he knew Perdita. They had a little time together, never enough. They played with Toby; they talked about filming.
They didn’t talk at all.
Sabine annoys Perdita
MY DEAR MILLY, HAVE you ever met someone who thinks she is perfectly right? Sabine does.
“I can’t wait until the movie comes out,” said Sabine to Perdita. “What’s it like to be famous? Do people take pictures of you? Do you go to a lot of parties? Do they ask you to sign autographs?”
“I’m not famous,” said Perdita. It was hard work, she said: hours of travel, days of travel, finding the theatre, checking the piano, practicing (never enough!), performing, having flowers thrown at you, smiling and shaking hands and heading for the railroad station again.
“It’s much nicer for movie stars,” said Sabine. “I’m going to have a private car and flowers in my room every day and people are going to love me because I’ll be a movie star.”
“With a baby it’s harder,” Perdita said.
“Somebody else will take care of the baby.”
Poor baby, Perdita thought, juggling Toby on her knee. Sabine seemed to think her baby would just disappear except at convenient times. She and André were alike; for them family was all about themselves. If Sabine and André ever made peace, they would fit beautifully together; both were complete monsters of egotism. They would grow old together, sitting on either side of the fireplace, André talking about death and Sabine about herself, and neither one of them listening to the other.
She was beginning to be cynical about marriage, she thought, to think the best it offered was two egotists ignoring each other.
What were she and Alexander going to do that was better?
You’re jealous, Milly wrote. Wouldn’t you love to have her money! And her—obliviousness! She’ll be one of those old women with an inch of makeup and a young boyfriend. The boyfriends will use drugs and have nervous breakdowns. And if anyone dies while she’s talking she’ll say, “But you’re not paying attention!”
Reading this with her magnifying glass, Perdita smiled.
One thing Perdita didn’t like at all about Sabine.
Every night, during the entertainment, Sabine told fortunes. The young officers flirted with her and she dealt out the cards for them. The cards made a whisper like soft slippers dancing. Glory, fortune, fame. And then the officers drank on the terrace and talked about Morocco and Alsace and victories.
“We’ll march into Berlin!”
Sabine was encouraging them to war, and only because she wanted to be the center of attention.
"Your fortune is below"; a dance with a bird
PAPA CYRON ASKED SABINE to tell Dr. Reisden a particular fortune.
“Tell him he’ll have good luck if—”
And he told her what to say.
“That’s not hard,” Sabine said. She shuffled the cards and dealt a perfect fortune.
They grinned at each other conspiratorially.
“You’re a good girl.”
“I know!”
That night at the entertainment she found Dr. Reisden and dealt him cards before he could object. “You’ve had a run of bad luck.” She had dealt him all the worst cards across the top row, the Book, the Cross, the Catafalque. “Oh, my, there you are just below them. But everywhere except above, you’re surrounded by luck.” He was looking away from her. “Pay attention to me! The Tree and the Key are next to each other, that means you’re close to your goal. Look, the Ring to the right, between you and the Lady; you’ll have success in love.”
He looked back at her and half-smiled: good news that he wanted but didn’t believe in, because it came from cards.
“The Chateau, the Bright Clouds, the Friend, the Child, the Cavalier, the Road, those are all good cards. You’re going to have great prosperity. Fortune will smile on you. A friend will help you, a stranger will give you good news. You’re going on a journey. Look below," Sabine said. “You should look below.”
She wished she knew what it was all about. What was Dr. Reisden supposed to understand?
But that was what Papa Cyron had told her to tell him: look below.
***
One night, during the entertainment, something happened that disturbed Sabine. It was Papa Cyron’s turn to entertain. He came out onto the terrace with something that looked like a feather duster. He unfolded it and it was a puppet, an ostrich with long legs and a long feathered neck and a tiny head that waggled absurdly. He held it by its sticks and paraded it up and down and made it bow and then, as he whistled a soft little tune, he made it begin to dance. Step to the right, kick, step to the left, kick. The puppet-bi
rd and Papa Cyron pointed their toes together, as serious as two priests dancing.
And then André laughed and got up from the little wall where he had been sitting and came forward, and he began to dance too, step and kick so that there were three of them in line, man and puppet and man, all in rhythm together. Everyone looked at them, astonished, because no one expected the hero Cyron and Necrosar to dance with a puppet. But there they were, dancing with each other.
And Sabine understood something uncomfortable, threatening; André and his stepfather shared something that was not about her and not about Necrosar. It disturbed her. It was something they had done together as a family, without her. It was as if a frame that had held only her picture now held a second one.
Sabine jumped up and danced, too. The rhythm was broken and André retreated into the darkness.
The trick guillotine
THE TRICK GUILLOTINE FOR the film was delivered to Arras on the tenth of July, Monday, five days before Gehazy wanted his answer. It was set up on the stage of the Théâtre d’Arras. The magician Charles De Vere, who had designed the trick, was there to train the actors on using the guillotine.
Sabine had seen guillotines before: In Paris, the one that had actually beheaded André’s great-grandfather was now a decoration in the garden of André’s house. The real one wasn’t as large as you’d think; the space under the blade was no wider than a narrow door, and not tall either: anyone tall would need to duck under the blade’s rusted edge.
But this one— It stood on a massive red platform, above their heads. The guillotine posts were painted dead velvety black and were scrawled with Revolutionary slogans: death to aristos, long live death, and a skull whose neck spurted blood. Swags of tricolor bunting draped the platform. The upper half of the circular lunette into which the victim’s neck fit was painted with a red-and-black half-bull’s-eye. The steel blade gleamed like Necrosar’s blue eyes.
The guillotine blade was terrifying, it was fascinating, it made one want to lie down on the plank, looking up at its edge. Sabine felt intensely alive.
André looked up at it as if it were Sarah Bernhardt. “Beautiful,” he breathed. “Beautiful.”
Oh, if I were a guillotine, Sabine thought.
“Thank you, Monsieur le Comte.” The magician was a sorcerous grey-haired man with a spade-shaped beard. “Monsieur Jules, how glad I am to see you’re better. Monsieur Krauss, Monsieur de Reisden ... Ah, Monsieur Cyron!”
Everybody went up on the guillotine platform.
“Now this is very dangerous equipment, madame, gentlemen,” said Monsieur de Vere. “This is a working guillotine. The blade weighs thirty pounds.” The director of the theatre, who was playing the King’s tax collector and was going to be guillotined first, turned green as a frog. Sabine smiled to herself. An assistant handed the magician a section of peeled pine trunk, just the diameter of the director’s neck. The magician balanced it on the lunette. The half-circle outlined it, drawing attention to it. The magician fitted the top of the lunette over it.
The second assistant hauled the blade upward in jerks. It was almost too heavy for the assistant; he had to wind the rope around his arms.
“You aren’t frightened, are you, Binny?” Papa Cyron said. “I wouldn’t want to startle you, in your delicate condition.”
It was in the private parts of herself she felt the guillotine most. It thrilled her. “I’m not frightened at all.”
“The executioner pulls the blade up to the top of the posts,” the magician said. “The victim kneels with his body resting on a small wooden platform behind the machine. His neck rests on the lunette. We place this long wicker basket next to the guillotine to receive his body; a square wicker hamper stands in front of the guillotine to take his head.” He moved the long, narrow wicker basket a bit closer to the platform.
“Now. Are we ready? Monsieur le Comte, if you would do the honors?”
André came up the stairs to the guillotine.
“Everyone stand away, please. No one close to the front of the machine. Thank you. Now we’ll demonstrate. Monsieur le Comte, when you’re ready, pull on the rope.”
André looked up at his machine, and Sabine looked at him. The blade hung above them, its edge a line of fire from the stage lights. André jerked the rope savagely. The blade ripped the air and the thud jarred the whole stage.
“The blade falls and slices through the victim’s neck. The decapitated head falls into the hamper. The body rolls into this larger basket.” He tilted the long, narrow wicker hamper, and the sheared remnant of the pine trunk rolled out.
“Now I hope I have persuaded you that this is a very dangerous trick. Monsieur Boufils, come, let’s try with you—?”
The theatre director made a little noise in his throat. He was sweating.
“Your head in the block.” Monsieur Boufils knelt, put his neck on the block, and closed his eyes tight.
“You’re not going to die today, monsieur!” Sabine called; she knew. Monsieur Boufils opened his eyes and smiled at her weakly, not believing her.
“You are kneeling,” De Vere said, “yes, yes ...” He fitted the direc-tor’s chin onto the bottom half of the lunette. “Put your head between those two long dowels.”
“Can I see?” Sabine said.
“Yes, of course, madame, but be careful. Stand behind the guillotine, not in front.”
Papa Cyron and she stood behind the guillotine. The dowels were painted black, the first sign of trickery. “Executioner?” De Vere said. “That’s you, Monsieur Jules?” Sabine scowled: André had made sure that his friend had a role after all. “Check for us that the victim’s head is securely held.”
Jules thumped the wooden collar and nodded.
“Now, our Executioner must have a costume. A black cloak,” an assistant handed it to Jules, “and a black hood,” De Vere produced one from the air. Jules put them on slowly and painfully, leaning against the guillotine post. The hood caught on the cage on his jaw. “Marco, make a note, a bigger hood for Monsieur Jules.”
The blade gleamed grey like death’s veil.
“Now, Monsieur Boufils, we want no trickery, so the Executioner will secure your wrists. Monsieur, your right hand—good—” With his cloak and hood, Jules could hardly see. Monsieur de Vere tied Monsieur Boufils’ wrists and secured them to the guillotine frame. The director could move neither his head nor his hands. Sabine could smell fear-sweat on him. He looked as if he were about to cry.
“Can you get out, monsieur?” The director braced himself and tugged backward, doing nothing but scraping his chin and wrists. “No. You’re caught, immobile. Good. Now, Monsieur Jules, you are going to cross in front of the guillotine and pull the rope. Step on this plank. Where that stain is, that’s your mark. No, don’t pull yet!”
Jules made his way across the platform, using one cane. Suddenly, as Jules stepped on the plank, the lower part of the lunette fell away. The poor astonished little director slipped backward and found himself safe, looking at the back of the lunette. His hands were still cuffed to the frame but his head was free and out of the path of the blade.
“Move the dowels a little with your head, Monsieur Boufils,” De Vere said, “but don’t move your shoulders. That’s good. Twist your hands in the cuffs, pull.—Now, Monsieur Jules, here is your part of the trick. You have this mask under your cloak. You have blocked the audience’s sight of Monsieur Boufils as he frees himself. You quickly fit this mask over the hole in the lunette, like this, and hook it onto these hooks. Monsieur Cyron, you’ll do some piece of business at the same time, some big gesture, so the audience will be looking at you. Good. Are you ready, Monsieur Jules? David, the rope; un-hook it and pull it up the rest of the way.”
It was only an illusion after all. Sabine moved around to the front of the guillotine to see it. It was just a rubber mask. As the director moved the dowels, the rubber head writhed and silently screamed, showing white teeth and a red tongue. The hooks were large to catch the m
ask but painted black against black. The director’s hands writhed on either side of the mask, out of the path of the blade. Mask and hands together looked like a living victim.
Tricks are so disappointing.
“After Monsieur Jules crosses the stage and before he pulls the rope,” De Vere said, “we see the mask for perhaps half a second, just enough to give an impression. The bands are attached to the mask near the mouth. Wires ensure that the skin also stretches around the glass eyes.” He unhooked the mask and showed them the wire bracing behind the rubber. The photographer came onstage to look.
“Now the aristo is about to be beheaded. Monsieur the Director, I’ll ask you to do a little business with your hands. Just as the blade comes down, clutch your hands, then let them go limp. Perfectly limp, like that. Ready?” The photographer retreated down the stairs and back onto his stepladder. “Ready, David? Ready, Monsieur Jules? Pull the rope.”
Jules pulled. The platform thudded like a drum. The still-writhing head suddenly went limp and expressionless, gave a hop for-ward, and fell into the basket. The Executioner threw a cloth over the “victim,” unfastened its wrists, and let the body fall into the big basket.
“That’s all you need to do, Monsieur Boufils—Monsieur?”
The “body” lay still for a moment, then sat up hurriedly. “I’m feeling a little— Excuse me a minute.” Monsieur Boufils scuttled offstage.
Sabine put her hand on her stomach. She leaned back against one of the supports of the guillotine. “Madame, are you all right?” De Vere asked.
“Oh, yes—yes—”
Fright is beautiful. She was going to be captured in the guillotine too. She felt like a sacrifice, helpless, chosen, with Necrosar’s blue eyes looking down on her. She imagined herself lying on the plank, in a flowing white gown, her hair glowing light. The camera approached her like a lover.