“Stop,” he said softly, into her ear, and she stopped while he caught his breath and cooled a little, but he didn’t let her cool; his fingers moved between her legs, slowly, and her wild racing became a dreamlike coiling and uncoiling. He felt her place exactly, knew just how far she had to go, and he took her there as slowly as he could, making her desire double up against itself, crash and magnify itself. As she coiled toward the edge, just as her spring began to snap, he stopped and she hung suspended over the depths.
The Empress came by again, in a boat filled with her handmaidens and a Turkish oarsman. They sailed slowly along, disappearing into the black reaches of his mind, trailing only a few bright bubbles.
“Oh, please, Fanjoy, Fanjoy...”
He pressed his face into her hair; it was dry and stiff from acids and curling irons, like the hair of a mare. “Please,” she groaned, “please, I can’t wait...”
He slid his fingers back into her slippery lips, drummed his fingertips, lightly, as he’d been doing when she first saw him, drummed her over the edge. She fell with a long laughing moan, tangled her ankle back around his, trying to drag him with her. He let go, into her laughing chasm, his body dissolving in ecstasy, madness, annihilation, and out of the darkness he heard the voice of Madame Lazare speaking softly in his ear, There are secrets, she said, and Duval echoed her voice, As you say, madame, there are secrets.
Picard gasped, felt himself in Lazare’s clutches, felt lost and disintegrating, a fool with a girl in the night, caught in a trap he cannot see, a trap which closes softly, and then it was over and he felt only the soft, gently closing lips of the young woman, opening and closing on him, draining him sweetly and completely. It’s only a screw, one of a thousand, a million, the night, the night. The stairway rattled again, he thought perhaps someone had fallen down it, perhaps I’m falling down it, down it. He reached far into the blackness, discovering lime-tree flowers, candlelight, the young girl’s bare shoulders. He was looking at them, she was soaked with sweat, and he was already feeling the morning train to Vienna.
“Stay there... just a moment more,” she said. He liked her sobbing laugh, knew that he could easily fall for her, and was anxious to clear out before it happened. After a few weeks with this one, I’d be groveling, as usual, or wanting to clip her on the jaw. Better not to suffer that again; don’t look in her heart too long.
He felt the flopping in his stomach, where she had gained a hold on him, where he was helpless and already loving her. A helpless pig about love, he understood himself too well.
He found his undershirt. If we’re lucky we’ll never meet again. He glanced back and saw the look in her eyes. Young girls sometimes fall quickly too. But not for long. In two weeks she’d be using my head for a soup bowl. Clear out, Picard, while you still can. Where are my shorts?
She knelt at the edge of the bed, ran her fingers up his leg, to his groin, fondling him there. “Your jewel, dear Fanjoy,” she said, touching his battered, half-hidden nut. “What happened to it?”
“Did you know St. Gervais, the bodyguard of David Orleans? He hung out in this neighborhood.”
“Did he...?”
“He kicked me in the jewel.”
“Men are so stupid.” She helped him close the buttons on his pants. “And you, what did you do to him?”
“He was buried with his rib cage torn out.”
“How disgusting...”
“But necessary, for he certainly would have torn out mine.” He went to the mirror, adjusted his tie. Within the glass he watched her return to bed. She lay down and placed the pearl in her belly button, staring at it, smiling faintly.
“The perfect setting,” he said, turning back to her. It was all right now, the danger had passed. He felt his freedom, and hers, and just now they were two swift birds of the night.
“Will it pay my rent?” she asked.
“It will.”
“You’re a gentleman, Monsieur Fanjoy.”
“No,” he said, “I’m a fool.” He looked away from her again, for they could easily lose their wings, especially if she gave him any sort of compliment. A pig with women, a simple and incurable pig.
“Perhaps I’m the fool,” she said, “believing this is real.” She toyed with the pearl, setting it between her breasts. “Perhaps you’re just a liar...”
“Tomorrow, when you find an honest jeweler...”
She looked up, smiling. “But even if you’re a liar, Fanjoy, I don’t care. Come back to bed with me. Give me some more of that.” She closed her eyes, and squeezed her thighs together.
He fastened his cape, found his cane and hat. In less than a week with this one. In three days I would be enslaved.
He opened the door, turned toward her as he stepped
into the hall. She was seated on the bed, looking at him, raising her hair up over her head.
I am already enslaved. Fly, Picard, fly!
He went quickly down the creaking stairs, past the broken bottles, into the street. What a wonderful girl. Don’t look back for the address—but I know her building, could pick it out of a million others.
A winged pig of love, flying over the gutter.
He walked slowly through the darkness of the late hour. Café dancers stood in the shadows of a doorway, smoking, speaking low, apparitions in the smoke.
He stopped in front of the Hôtel Royal. Its restaurant was still open, couples seated by candlelight in the windows. And in the dark wreath that surrounded the building there floated a memory, of Abdul the Bird.
Picard walked beside the fence of the hotel, tapping his cane lightly on the iron spikes. That one down there, I marked it with my pocketknife.
He found the spike, with the notch cut in it, and sighted over it, to the rooftop, into the eyes of a grinning gargoyle, who’d been grinning the night he and the Arab had wrestled on the ledge. His dagger in my ribs up there. But my bootheel in his face, and over the edge he went, Abdul the Bird, unable to fly, after all, impaling himself on this spike.
Picard rubbed the spike for luck. Little superstitions, yes. Small ceremonies to preserve one’s confidence.
He tapped along the rest of the fence, felt his cane pass through the last spike, as if it were made of smoke, then saw that in fact there was no spike at all, he’d seen a last one where there was none—but I know, yes I know which spike that one is. It’s the one Abdul’s ghost has planned for me. He waits with it in the darkness, waits for me to fall.
Walk on, Picard, the river lights are calling.
Lamplight and moon, splashed on the river—he approached slowly, heard voices from the water, on the houseboat docked there, saw the dog, the water wolf who sat by himself on deck, watching the river.
The dog turned, feeling someone’s gaze upon him, his eyes the tiniest lights on the river, and the most expressive. He stared at Picard a moment, then turned slowly back toward the river, resuming his watch over the passing darkness, in which humanity played the least interesting part.
From the Quarter came the Spanish songs, the Spaniards drunk now and renewing themselves with melodious memory, of Granada, Malaga. Picard went through the music, humming as he passed them, his barrel tones sombre and few, something like a hound’s growling.
His stomach was growling as well; he pushed through the doors of the Restaurant Hindustan.
“Paul!” Armand came toward him, hand outstretched.
“How’re you, amigo?”
“I have an incomparable stew tonight.”
* * *
“Don’t let that bit of mold trouble you, Paul.” Armand set down a disreputable little bread basket, whose straw edges bore the marks of a rodent who’d sharpened his teeth there.
“What do you know about Ric Lazare?”
“His wife is a...” Armand made an obscene noise with his mouth.
“Anything about Lazare himself?”
“The usual crap. You know how thieves exaggerate.” Picard took a piece of bread, examined it carefully
, set it back down. “Lazare is known to them?”
“He cleaned out Vienna, so they say.”
“How did he perform there?”
“Very well, to judge by the joint he’s purchased on the rue de Richelieu. That stew is something, eh?”
Picard stared at the grey concoction of grease and bones, regretting he’d consumed as much of it as he had. “Aside from the hairs floating there...”
“It’s that Turk I have cooking for me,” said Armand, grabbing the bowl and looking into it. “I told that son of a bitch to trim his mustache!”
Armand led the way back to the kitchen. The Turk and a grizzled old dishwasher were taking turns with a slingshot, stoning a small plaster statue of Louis Napoleon. Louis’s head had been shot off. The Turk was drawing back the rubber, let fly a stone that tore the Emperor’s legs off and the little statue tumbled over. In the excitement the Turk dropped his cigar butt in the large soup pot. He stirred around in it for a few moments, but was unable to locate the stub.
“Here, Paul,” said Armand, taking the slingshot, “have a shot.”
“I’ve no quarrel with Louis,” said Picard, smiling.
Armand placed a stone in the sling. “This, Louis, is from the peerless restaurateur you seek to ruin.” He turned to Picard. “You know our sovereign has decreed that this street shall be widened and my café torn down?”
“I didn’t know.”
“There will be no more incomparable stew...” Armand took aim. The band stretched to its ultimate length, the sling snapped, the stone flew to its mark, shattering what was left of the Emperor. The dishwasher made a mark on the kitchen wall, which was already covered by numerous score lines. He turned to Armand and saluted.
“We’ve destroyed one hundred Louis Napoleons, my captain.”
“This calls for a celebration.” Armand went to the wine cabinet, brought out a dusty bottle and held it to the light. “A disgusting wine from one of the worst years.” He opened the bottle and filled four glasses. Putting the wine to his lips, he tasted it and grimaced. “Distinguished by its superb sourness. How was your stew, Paul? Tell me truthfully.”
“Matched only by this wine,” said Picard, pouring it into a large rubber plant beside the kitchen door.
“Omar,” said Armand, pointing toward the Turk, “is the worst chef in Paris. I am fortunate to have him.”
The Turk bowed ceremoniously and Armand put his arm around Picard’s shoulder, leading him back to the dining room, through the aisle of empty tables.
“Come by for breakfast, Paul. Omar will be preparing a marvelous omelette. First he throws it on the floor...”
“Know anything else about Lazare?”
“He can drink poison,” said Armand. “Yes, I’m not kidding you. Some Viennese dumbbell challenged him to a duel and Lazare chose the weapon—a bottle of poison which they shared. The dumbbell died, of course, and Lazare is in Paris, entertaining on the rue de Richelieu. But I’d like to see him drink a glass of this little wine and live to tell of it.” Armand spit a mouthful out the door, as Picard stepped into the street.
The Spaniards were still singing. He walked through their ranks, attempted another growl or two. A few minutes’ walk brought him to the door of his tenement. The card game continued in the concierge’s room. A broken claret glass lay in the doorway, fragments of it scattered around the hall. Last month there’d been a contest among the gentlemen, to see who could kick a bottle, barefooted, furthest up the stairs. A ridiculous affair, which Picard was ashamed to admit he’d won.
He climbed slowly to his apartment, let himself into the gloom, undressed in darkness. The Spaniards had drifted into the narrow rue de Nesle and were leaning up against the dead end of it, singing of the Alhambra in the echoing lane. They led him into sleep with their sad lament, to a street in an unknown land, where the streetlamps were crystal balls, one after another along an endless avenue. He followed it over the horizon and down, walking the great glittering thoroughfare. In each of the crystal lamps he saw figures moving, small and luminous, their bodies forming the radiance of the lamps. With sudden astonishment he found himself coming up and around to the spot from which he’d begun. His avenue was a ring of silver, and the lampposts were jewels which decorated the ring.
Looking up, he saw high above him the giant who wore the jeweled ring upon his finger. Horrified, Picard realized that his own body was no bigger than a flea, crawling along the rim of the giant’s ring.
He woke, heard a Spaniard vomiting in the gutter. It was dawn. The night had gone by in an instant.
PART II
The Valet of Coins
“No, Lazare is no citizen of Austria, nor does he own any property in Leopoldstadt.” The Viennese Chief of Police opened his desk drawer and removed a brass water pipe, the bowl of which he filled with dark wet tobacco. “There is, however, a superb prison in Leopoldstadt. Perhaps you would care to visit it. I can contact the warden.”
“No,” said Picard, “I think not.”
“The insane asylum, then?” The Chief placed a piece of glowing charcoal in the bowl. “Upon request...” He puffed on a silken-wrapped hose. “...the patients are exhibited and beaten for special guests. I could arrange...”
“Thank you, no,” said Picard. “You have nothing on this man Lazare?”
“We know who he is, naturally. He operated here for months.” The Chief surrounded himself with a cloud of smoke, the fumes of which made Picard lean forward dizzily. The Chief smiled. “You’re admiring the aroma of my tobacco. A mixture of spice and molasses.” He pointed to the gurgling brass chamber. “Essence of rose and saffron in the water. It is the style in Kashmir. Have you been there? I have another tube for this infernal thing, you can join me...”
“I must refrain...”
“Yes, the smoke is rather strong. Comes from a marvelous little shop, you must visit it, the Black Mother of God.” The Chief continued puffing and looked up with a sheepish grin. “Strong, very strong. Occasionally it renders me unconscious.”
“About Lazare...”
“He swindled a fortune out of our nobility. I know this for a fact, but no complaint came forth, nor was a single charge laid against him. Are you certain you wouldn’t care to hook on the other tube? Tobacco like this...”
“Why weren’t charges brought against him?”
“Fear, I should think. I put a man on his track, one of my best men. You’ll find this hard to believe, no doubt—” The Chief leaned forward, the silken hose hanging from the corner of his mouth. “He visited Lazare’s salon, on Augustin Strasse, a very good address, you know. Lazare had—a crystal ball. His guests looked into it, a parlor game, that sort of thing. My man looked into it and saw...” The Chief paused, rekindled his charcoal. “...saw himself lying dead on the pavement. He reported back to me, terribly rattled.”
“And...?”
“He was found dead on the pavement the next day. On Augustin Strasse.”
“The cause of death?”
“Apoplexy.” The Chief inhaled slowly, blew a long stream of smoke in the air, his face growing suddenly pale. “If I should collapse... would you be good enough to... ring for my secretary...”
Picard handed a tumbler of water to the Chief, who sipped it, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. He pushed the pipe away, stared at the smoldering bowl. “Well... I made a... thorough inquiry into Lazare.” He slowly wrapped the silken hose into a coil, and sprinkled water in the bowl, sending a sizzling cloud into the air. “I could find no trace of him anywhere else in Europe. He came to us out of the mists. If you want my advice, let him run his course in your city. Let him have his way—if you value your life.”
“Surely you don’t think he caused the death of your detective?”
“A word to the wise, Inspector. There are very few sidewalks in our city and the traffic is swift, so watch your step. I was nearly run down by a carriage yesterday. Sorry I have nothing more for you on this Lazare fellow. Take care th
en, adieu...”
* * *
Picard went through the streets of the city, descending into the dark passageways which had been tunneled beneath the great monolithic buildings, and came out again, a bloodhound with his nose in the wind, chasing a fox who’d left no track.
He entered a lane filled with the carts of peasant tradesmen. They were Greeks and Hungarians and Moldavians, all in native dress. The street was dry and the passing carriages raised the dust; he and Veniot had found the track of Roger Givan, the bomb-throwing anarchist, while staring at an exhibit of artificial teeth. One never knows—the mind is vast, and works with secret precision. Threads, the hidden threads.
That’s my card, Monsieur Lazare; you have your fortune-telling machine which tells you all, and I have learned that the earth itself will play when the chase is on. Something will appear, of that I’m certain. Call me superstitious, and think of me as an easy target for your hocus-pocus. But I’m speaking of real magic, Lazare, which no man can control.
He found himself drawn to a narrow canyon-like street, and walked along it, in the shadow of high noble buildings where Austrian princes were entertaining their ladies this winter afternoon. Candles burned in the high windows, and servants came and went, while Picard paused, watching the inner life of the street, his nerves quivering delicately, as they had when he and Veniot were searching for Givan, through this same city. The air had positively crackled, and strange pieces were moved right beneath their noses. Even the phlegmatic Veniot was convinced of it—an invisible hand was at play in the chase.
The street was joined by an intriguing little alleyway which he followed, walking past a row of servants’ quarters. An old man in livery was struggling up the alley, a bucket of water in each hand, drawn from a fountain at the alley’s end. He entered a kitchen doorway; Picard heard the voices of the kitchen staff for a moment, before they were sealed again behind a heavy wooden door. He continued on toward the fountain; it was a humble, utilitarian creation—for the purpose the old man had put it to—water for the adjoining households. But the Viennese soul could not resist adding a few grotesque pieces of stonework—a bench, and an ancient statue, dragged from somewhere and stuck down, to give visitors to the alleyway something to remember.
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