It was on just such an occasion that he met Margot. Christian was midsentence with a fat old dowager who happened to be carrying a rare cabriolet—quite out of fashion but excellent quality—when a young lady gave him a poke with her fan. Small and dark with a pointy nose, she asked him to dance on a wager with her mistress. Margot didn’t open her fan all evening, although she had borrowed it as part of the bet and knew it to be of uncommon value. Christian didn’t even ask. For once his attention was turned away from blades, sticks, guards, and trim.
Their hasty union turned out to be a happy one, and with Margot’s help, Christian learned to speak with some degree of focus to customers of the Tellier shop, and found friends with whom he spent evenings losing at cards and discussing the angry world that was writhing beneath the exquisitely decorated surface of Paris in 1789. Then one summer day, Tellier’s shop was visited by a raucous crowd that wanted printed fans—copies! printed on paper!—that would serve to educate the people. M. Tellier was courteous, if furious; he said he knew nothing of printing or paper; he only knew of art. He spat on the pavement after the rabble left, but his brow was furrowed and his hands grasped each other for comfort. When this began to happen with increasing regularity, Tellier told Christian that he was heading to Belgium for a long visit. Perhaps Christian should also plan to take his leave. There would be a time when life would return to normal. Until then, Atelier Tellier was closed.
When Versailles was ransacked and the Bastille taken in July of 1789, Margot’s employer, a wealthy Hessian aristocrat, announced she was leaving for home, and the staff would be dismissed by October. The lady gave them all half a year’s wages, and to Margot, her favorite, she gave several pieces of jewelry and a baroque Italian découpé fan that was worthy of a queen. Margot promptly sewed these valuables into the lining of one of Christian’s coats, knowing they would need them later. They discussed, reluctantly, a move to Christian’s birthplace: Stockholm. In the fall of 1790, without work or prospects, they finally followed the North Star.
The Town was not nearly as barbaric as Margot had feared; the citizenry were courteous and well dressed. Many of them spoke French. The Bollhus Theater played French dramas. The king was indeed enlightened, even allowing Roman Catholics to practice their faith. Margot wept with happiness when she attended mass the first time, held in the Freemasons’ rooms in South Borough. Christian, who returned to the Lutheran faith for practical reasons, became favorably inclined toward the Freemasons, a group so enlightened that they would allow this use of their quarters. He joined a lodge not long after, and it was here Christian met Master Fredrik Lind. Master Fredrik, as a fellow artist, urged Christian to make his shop a beacon of French culture and promised to help him make beneficial connections.
The Nordén family’s savings were poured into the renovation of their shop on Cook’s Alley. It was not the most desirable address but one they could afford, and there were decent lodgings above. Christian’s brother Lars, who had remained in the Town while his older sibling went to Paris, was employed to charm the ladies. The Nordéns prayed that the Gustavian delight with all things fine and French would cause them to prosper, but they were still waiting for this prayer to be answered, more than a year later.
The church bells were chiming eight o’clock when Christian finally returned home. He kissed Margot, then held her at arm’s length. “What is it?” he said, looking askance at her.
“I said nothing.” She shrugged.
“But it feels like something,” he said, removing his cloak and rubbing his hands to warm them. “I am sorry I am late. I have been at the lodge and have excellent news. But tell me what is bothering you first.”
Margot found the letter in her pocket, gave it to Christian, then sat on the painter’s stool. “Your brother insisted that it was for him, but I would not translate.”
“Correct, correct. It is our business, and we are sworn to confidentiality.” He unfolded the paper and moved closer to the light.
“Your brother dislikes me.”
“Nonsense, Margot, Lars holds no ill will toward you; he is only overly fond of himself.” He read the letter and looked up when he was finished. “Double! This Cassiopeia has brought us excellent luck, Margot.”
“That is a bribe, my dear.”
“No, no, it is gratitude! Mrs. S has her reasons.”
“And what does this mean—he is sympathetic to our cause?”
“Ah, our Mrs. S is a daughter of Reims. We spoke of France and the efforts of Gustav to save the king.” Christian stared up at the ceiling, as if remembering their hasty flight to the North, but Margot took his face into her hands and brought his focus to her.
“It is never to be your business, politics. Our business is romance and art.”
“I am eager to be your client in romance, and we now have a client for art.” Christian took her hand in his. “Margot, I have been invited to lecture on the fans,” he said, his voice squeaking with excitement, “at the home of Madame Uzanne.” Margot clapped a hand over her mouth. “Yes, Margot! Madame Uzanne—the beacon of the arts, of my art, in the Town. I will address her class of young ladies. We will sell them hundreds of fans!”
Margot brought her hand away from the O of her lips and kissed him. “How did this miracle happen?”
“Through my brother,” Christian said. Margot frowned. “Not Lars my brother, but my brother from the lodge—Master Fredrik Lind. He is the hand of Madame Uzanne, and promised to connect us. It is our moment, Margot. We will make our way at last. Master Fredrik suggested we send her a gift. I thought perhaps the Butterfly.”
“But I sold the Butterfly today. To the courier. Paid in full.”
Christian glanced toward the front of the shop and the cabinet full of resting fans. “So sad. I will miss her.”
“Sad?! Mr. Nordén, this is a day full of good news, finally.” Margot straightened Christian’s collar, then stopped and put her hands on his shoulders. “There were two ladies from the Opera in the shop today. They ordered three fans. Three identical fans.”
Christian’s face went blank. “Dear God. I have nothing to wear.”
“Did you hear what I said?” Margot asked.
“Perhaps I can borrow a coat from Lars; he’s become quite the dandy of late. The customers are quite taken with him. He has a short scarlet jacket, trimmed in black braid, very regal. Madame might take a fancy to that.”
“Christian.”
He pulled her into an embrace and kissed the top of Margot’s head. “Well, perhaps if I borrow last season’s green coat from Lars, it will be fine enough to get me through Madame’s door but not so fine as to cause a stir among the ladies.” He released her slowly, and his face had lost its light. “I did hear you, Margot. I hesitate.” He went to straighten the paintbrushes on the table.
Margot lit a taper, and blew out the oil lamp. “Do we really have a choice?” She bolted the back door, and Christian pulled the shutters. They went to the front of the shop to check the locks, the yellow stripes on the walls now dark in the flicker of the taper. “Perhaps it is a sign. Good news in threes: connections, a commission, and the Butterfly has flown,” Margot whispered.
Christian pressed against her and blew out the candle. “Good news at last.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Pilgrim’s Progress
Sources: E. L., denizens of The Pig
THE NOVEMBER LIGHT WAS just a gray wash and the air damp, so I lit a candle to make it morning and lend some visual warmth to the Sunday. I woke with a splitting headache from one glass of strange rum at The Pig. No one there knew the whereabouts of the Grey girl, although the innkeeper cursed her like she was Satan’s daughter and said he would give me his half-cask of rum if I brought her back to be thrashed.
The Superior had become impatient again and waited to collar me after Sunday services, a knobby spinster or two in tow. My lack of progress was becoming uncomfortable and the continual dodging a chore. The Superior’s determination to
follow through on his threat to replace me now had a date: January 5—the Epiphany. So I had made it known at Saturday coffee I was off to meet a prospective girl and her family and would not be seen in my usual pew. I wanted to work on my Octavo instead. The sound of Mrs. Murbeck verbally trouncing her son downstairs as they headed off to church was a happy sign: I would be left in peace for at least three hours.
A stack of foolscap I had “rescued” from the office was ready for pen and ink on the table. I took a single sheet and drew the eight rectangles of the Octavo around a central square. The Uzanne was writ bold as my Companion, our connections growing. Her treasured fan was in my room, a high stakes chip to toss in the game when the cards were right. The upcoming lecture at Gullenborg promised possibilities if not outright answers.
The Prisoner. Anna Maria was trapped by her mother and looking for release. Nothing would please me more than to free her, or hold her fast myself. That we had met outside the fan shop, Cassiopeia about to come into my hands, was connection enough to The Uzanne. Her name was underlined with a curling flourish and several long dashes.
Teacher—the instructive Master Fredrik.
I pondered the Murbeck boy as Courier, but decided to leave it blank.
The Trickster? Even without a link to The Uzanne, she was all too clear from the image on the card. I could not bear to write it out, so put simply Mrs. M. But how might I use her to further my aims?
Studying the trio in the Magpie card, I suddenly saw Margot with the brothers Nordén! Surely there was a straight line to The Uzanne from such a shop. Margot would know every lady in the Town, their ripening daughters and nieces—only women of substantial means gave them custom. And Margot would certainly speak on my behalf. I wrote her full name on my chart, followed by an exclamation mark. She would know where the Plomgrens lived!
The Prize was an irritation still; the men at the lodge seemed leery of my questions regarding their unmarried daughters. And none of them seemed remotely artistic. I would inquire of Master Fredrik; that was his job, after all, as Teacher.
The Key. Mrs. Sparrow was opening a new world for me with the Octavo. With her ties to the king, and my Companion’s aristocratic lines, I might pull myself higher than I ever dreamed. Just as the Grey girl had said: small keys open large doors. She had already crossed the threshold and was on a golden path. I will be soon as well, I thought.
Chapter Twenty-Two
A Step up the Ladder
Sources: Various, including, L. Nordén, Mr. and Mrs. Plomgren, G. Tavlan, Red Brita, two tailors, one unidentified soldier, neighbors from Ferken’s Alley
MOTHER PLOMGREN CLAPPED her hands. “Look lively, my plum, lively. The premier is next week, and we have a very handsome trio to be fitted. A corporal, a man from the Justice department, and one singer who works the lamp-lighting brigade in South Borough.” She pinched her daughter’s cheek. “Apply a bit of rouge, dear. The lamplighter you can forget, but the other two—who knows whether they might like a wife with their fitting, who knows?”
“I know, and the answer is most definitely not,” Anna Maria said, rolling her sleeves up and repinning her hair. The Opera House was no place for bridegrooms. At this very moment, she could see the crumpled trousers and bare legs of head scene painter Gösta Tavlan behind the large hanging drop of an enchanted lake, the painted water shivering with each thrust of his bottom.
Marriage. She had done it once, and it had not gone well. Mother Plomgren seemed to think that the next one would be different.
Anna Maria worked with her mother and father in the Opera atelier, making costumes and small props. She had acquired the skills of an actress, too, studying the manners and speech of the patrons, players, and the wealthy members of the audience that sat in the box seats. She desired nothing less than to sit in Opera Box 3 on the grand tier and knew these skills would be key to that ascension. When she had the exclusive use of Opera Box 3, and sat in a gilt chair covered in white brocade, high above the sweaty mob of the parquet that was crushed against the stage by the end of Act 1, she would know exactly how to smile serenely down upon them and make a comment that implied both camaraderie and condescension. She would have a wardrobe that was not theatrical bric-a-brac glued onto a dyed and altered gown bought from a dead woman’s estate. She would be but a few steps from the king, and she would return his gracious attention with a well-practiced smile and humble curtsy that contained the flavor of her hatred.
IN HER YOUTH, Anna Maria thought she might achieve her ends in the conventional way, via a strategic liaison; she carefully studied Sophie Hagman, a lovely dancer who gracefully tripped into the arms of the king’s youngest brother, Fredrik Adolf. Miss Hagman had the perfect life: a luxurious apartment, more than adequate means, and she was free to be a coryphée, to socialize with all manner of people—from royalty to artists. Sophie Hagman was respected, even at court, without having to marry anyone. As a bonus, it seemed that the handsome Duke Fredrik actually loved her; an ideal arrangement, by any measure. Unfortunately for Anna Maria, though the parade of possible amours that came and went through the ornate doors of the Opera House was dizzying, no one seemed interested in more than some intermission refreshment and physical relief. Instead, she married a soldier and learned about the drama of war.
When Anna Maria was seventeen, Mother Plomgren’s nephew had come to call with a handsome comrade from his regiment in tow—Magnus Wallander. Anna Maria recognized a man who could absorb her heat, and they became inseparable; no one could say which flame burned brighter. A hasty wedding was made, and they took a small set of rooms just around the corner on Ferken’s Alley. The neighbors laughed at their lusty games, but then the games became less merry. They use no words of any Christian tongue, Red Brita, a neighbor, said to Mother Plomgren, only screeches and howls as would bring Sir Cloven Hoof to the house. I fear for your girl, Mother P., she has the temper of a heat-crazed Bedouin. Someone will be sore injured, as was my own niece in Norrköping, who lies now under and her three young girls in the poorhouse.
When Magnus Wallander was called to the king’s war in Finland in 1789, the couple and their infant girl moved into her parents’ rooms on East Long Street. Anna Maria was happy with the prospect of Magnus leaving, happy for the safety and closeness of her parents’ house. It would save money, and there would be help and protection. Magnus was less enthralled with the arrangement. It cramped his style and his fighting and his fucking, and his temper was even more likely to cause damage here. Anna Maria, nursing a two-month-old, could hardly be expected to control her husband. She tried, heaven and earth she tried, but when he began to use the baby as a pawn in their games, it was only the king’s orders to battle that kept her from murder. “Let some Russian do the job, or a wayward shot from an angry comrade,” she said to her mother. “Drowning, rat bite, cholera—any way it happens will be a good way. I pray it will come soon and far away, so I need never see him again.”
A year later, she sat in the unnatural stillness of her parents’ home, the windows, the mirror, and all the furniture swathed in thick black cloth, and the place seemed too small for even a family of maggots—airless and dark, with only the gleam of white candles to light the way to the sitting room. There were none of the sounds that had filled the house before—the cries, the slaps, the soft expulsion of air from a punched stomach.
Anna Maria’s father, remembering the traditions of his youth in the countryside, insisted that fir trees be brought to decorate the doorposts. And so they stood, chopped off at the top, the clipped boughs strewn across the walkway and all the way into the house, making a fragrant carpet that kept evil away, and dampened the clack and scuffle of shoes. “This way the neighborhood makes no mistake as to the occasion and cannot whisper. They will know for certain that it has finally happened,” he said to his daughter. They already knew. Anna Maria dreaded the halt of conversation at the market, the blush at the baker’s stall, the dropped eyes at the butchers where a slaughtered calf hung behind th
e maple counter. But they would all come, the neighbors and friends and strangers, too, into the house with the fir trees, climbing the three flights to the darkened rooms that smelled of corpse, pine, and saffron kringlor—the huge pretzel-shaped breads that were always served at wakes. People seldom passed on an invitation that was drenched in the macabre and free food and drink, although the heat and smell might shorten their stay.
Anna Maria watched as Mother Plomgren set out cups and plates borrowed from friends, as Anna Maria had broken most of the family crockery casting them at her husband. This, too, was a game they had once enjoyed. His eyes would blaze with pleasure at the bombardment, furious and ineffective, until she reached for more dangerous ammunition. He was a military man, and knew to strike when the enemy was tiring but before they became desperate. He would overcome her, and fuck her ruthlessly, an ending to the conflict that was in fact its whole purpose. They only engaged in battle, and their hostility set off an irresistible explosion.
A plate slipped to the floor and shattered and Mother Plomgren cursed softly under her breath. Anna Maria sat motionless on the wide kitchen bench that served as her bed, a high color in her cheeks, and lips too red for such an occasion. It would not be right to appear so unaltered by this event, but she could never help her prettiness. “Work is a cure, my plum, honest work.” Mother Plomgren touched her arm gently. “Go and buy some fresh water from the wagon on the square. The house girl is away at the baker’s and there will be a crowd of parched throats.”
The Stockholm Octavo Page 15