The Great Game

by Michael Kurland

  In addition, Barnett noted the two muscular servants that the mummer had mentioned. There were two doors to the room, one to the main dining room, and one to a hall leading to the kitchen. One of these large men stood by each of the doors looking impassive and as unobtrusive as a very large man can look. They reminded Barnett of Gog and Magog, and he decided that the mummer was right, they must be bodyguards. He wondered what there was about either of the Bulefortes' bodies that required guarding. He would like to have asked Cecily what she thought, but there was no way to do so without the Bulefortes noticing.

  Soon he gladly put aside all such thoughts to concentrate on the food and the company. There was a cold white fish in a tart lemony sauce, a puff pastry collage of the meat of various shellfish, a layered dish involving pork and eggplant that seemed curiously Middle Eastern except for the pork, and a roast game bird with greens. Then pounded slices of veal with mushrooms. And on the side, artichoke, sautéed spinach, and gnocchi. Three different wines accompanied the diverse foods.

  After a certain point dinner became a sort of haze of good food, good wine, and fine conversation. Then the plates were cleared away to make room for dessert and coffee.

  "I see your plot," Barnett told Buleforte, staring down at a cake and compote construction that he obviously couldn't take another bite of without bursting. It was incredibly good. Cautiously he took another bite. A short waiter with a large mustache busied himself sweeping crumbs from the table with a silver mounted brush.

  "Which plot is that?" Ariste Buleforte asked, his face showing deep interest.

  "You're attempting to have us so contented and befuddled with fine food that we are easy pickings at the bridge table this evening." Barnett waved a finger at Buleforte across the table. "Don't say you're not. There can be no other explanation."

  "Ariste likes nothing better than good company, and enjoys entertaining," Diane Buleforte said. "We get so little chance for anything so intimate at home. And you have yet to prove, as you call it, 'easy pickings.' "

  A tall waiter with a dour expression brought in four delicate blue glasses nesting in ornate silver cages and filled them from an even more ornate urn of espresso coffee.

  "Easy pickings," Ariste mused. "A nice expression. It is this which I love about the English language; it is so permissive of idiomatic construction. Of course it is just this which makes it so difficult for the unwary; but once one develops the ear, it is greatly pleasurable."

  "Your English is excellent," Cecily told him.

  "You have been greatly complimented," Barnett said. "My wife has a fine ear for language. Her father is a world-famous linguist."

  "Is that so?" Ariste turned to Cecily with a lively interest showing in his face. "And what can you tell from my speech?" he asked her.

  Cecily considered for a moment. "You have a very interesting accent," she told him. "It might be a textbook case for the student."

  "Ah!" Buleforte said. He turned to his wife. "You see, my dear, I am a textbook case."

  "It is a question of what my father calls the 'overlays,' " Cecily explained. "Your native tongue is one of the Slavic group; I cannot tell which, unless I hear you speak it, of course. You spoke it interchangeably with French as a child. You learned English from someone who is perfectly fluent in it, but also not a native speaker."

  "Your father must be very good," Buleforte said. "How can you tell all this?"

  "The Slavic base shows up in your treatment of V's and W's, and a slight liquidity of the sibilants," Cecily explained. "In your case it takes a good ear to detect it. The French is evident in a certain emphasis about your vowel sounds."

  "And the fact that my instructor in English was not himself a native speaker?"

  "The very precision of your language and the paucity of idiom. No one whose native language is English speaks it quite that well. You were stressed on speech patterns by someone who was, himself, similarly stressed."

  "And how, if I spoke both French and Rumelian—for I admit it, and the Slavic language in question is Rumelian—if I spoke both of these interchangeably as a lad; how can you tell which was the native language?"

  "Simple deduction," Cecily explained. "Little Rumelian schoolboys learn French, but little Parisian schoolchildren do not learn Rumelian. Indeed, the French are almost as linguistically xenophobic as the British."

  "Astonishing!" Ariste Buleforte exclaimed. "You do yourself an injustice when you call it a simple deduction. Indeed, it is the sort of logic that is obvious when one hears it, yet one would never think of it on one's own."

  Cecily nodded. "One of the secrets of the trade," she said, smiling at the Bulefortes. "Although, as my father keeps telling me, the clever magician never reveals his secrets."

  "And you," Diane Buleforte asked, "do you speak any other languages?"

  "I do," Cecily said. "We traveled on the continent a lot when I was a little girl. Professionally, you know. My father was the director of a touring theatrical company, and acted in the troupe. My mother was the leading lady."

  "Actors?" Diane Buleforte looked faintly startled. "My dear, how dreadful for you," she said, extending one dainty hand to pat Cecily sympathetically on the arm. "What an improper childhood."

  Cecily laughed. "Not at all," she said. "Actually, it was quite wonderful, and almost unbearably proper. The one way it made me unfit for contemporary society was that I never learned that there are things women cannot do. As a result, I've always been able to do anything I set my mind to, and for that I will be everlastingly grateful. It came as quite a shock to me to realize, as I approached adulthood, that there were professions that most people, including other women, thought women incapable of learning and uninterested in practicing."

  "But surely, my dear," Diane Buleforte said, "there are many things that women or, at least, ladies should not indulge in."

  Ariste Buleforte pushed his chair back. "I never thought I should hear you admit that there was anything you could or should not do, my dear," he said to his wife.

  "Oh," Diane Buleforte said. "But those things I wish to occupy myself with are all—" she waved a hand in the air, searching for the right phrase "—proper for a woman to do," she finished. "That is to say, I would never wish to do anything improper, so the question of whether I should or should not never arises."

  "And if something you wished to do were to be regarded as improper by others?" Cecily inquired.

  Diane Buleforte looked slightly shocked. "That would never happen," she said.

  "Never?" Cecily persisted.

  "Oh, come now," Ariste said, taking his wife's hand. "There are some in our, ah, circle, who would consider our merely being here to be improper."

  Diane laughed.

  Here? Barnett wondered. Italy, or Como, or the pensione, or this room?

  "I suppose it is possible that some narrow-minded persons could consider some things I do, or might wish to do, to be slightly improper," Diane acknowledged, after a moment's thought. "But I refuse to allow myself or my actions to be limited by the prejudices of a few narrow-minded old ladies."

  "I, also," Cecily said. "The one thing that your aristocratic background, and my growing up in the theater have given us in common. I will not conform my activities to the preconceived notions of the narrow-minded old ladies—of either sex!"

  "Aristocratic?" Barnett asked.

  "Oh, yes," Cecily said. "Judging by Signora Buleforte's accent, she is of the French nobility. It is quite unmistakable. A hundred years ago, during the Terror, she would have been in danger of la Guillotine every time she opened her mouth."

  Diane Buleforte nodded, her eyes wide. "Incroyable!" she said. "Indeed, several of my ancestors were unlucky enough to be caught by the mob, and so lost their heads. But, my dear, several hundred years ago, surely, you yourself would be burned as a witch!"

  Cecily smiled.

  Ariste Buleforte leaned back in his chair and signaled to the waiters. "I thought it might be pleasant to conduct our bridge
game in here this evening, rather than retiring to the perhaps overcrowded card room," he said. "I have spoken with Frau Schimmer, and she has graciously given her consent. The waiters will shortly be going off duty, but my men will take care of our needs."

  "It sounds good to me," Barnett said, pushing back his chair and getting up. "But it might be nice to stretch our legs for a bit before settling down to the game."

  "Perhaps a brief stroll in the garden?" Ariste suggested. "It will give the servitors time to clear the table and prepare it for gaming." He got up and went over to the French doors. "I don't believe it is too chilly out. Although the ladies, perhaps, would like their wraps? We will send one of the waiters to your rooms, if so."

  "I don't think I'll need a wrap," Cecily said. "At any rate, I'm willing to make the experiment."

  "I'm sure I shall be quite comfortable," Diane said, peering doubtfully through one of the panes of glass.

  Ariste Buleforte opened the French doors and stepped outside. The slight breeze that came through the open doors was cool, but not uncomfortable. One of Buleforte's impassive servitors did his best to rush around the room without appearing to be rushing around the room to get through the French doors and out into the garden right behind his master.

  Barnett took his wife's arm, and together they strolled into the garden. The sun was down, and a large lunar disk was just appearing over the distant mountains. "A lovely night," he said, "with a full moon rising in a cloudless sky."

  "Indeed," Diane Buleforte said, coming up behind them. "It feels peaceful, and endless; if a bit chill."

  "Where one puts aside the cares of state, eh?, and reflects on the essential oneness of the universe and all its creatures." Ariste Buleforte turned and smiled at them. "And we are all one, are we not? We creatures that swarm upon the earth? All one in the futility of our hopes, and the brief flicker that is our lives."

  "Ariste!" Diane said.

  "I apologize," Ariste said. "I did not mean that as maudlin as it, perhaps, sounded. Indeed, until the words came from my mouth, I thought they were going to be jolly. The stars have a strange influence upon man."

  "Upon you, at any rate, my dear," Diane said, taking his arm.

  A man stepped out from behind a tree about thirty feet away and yelled something at them in German. As Barnett turned to look, the man's arm swung forward and the object in it flew in an arc toward them. A red spark circled the object as it spun through the night sky.

  "My God!" Ariste Buleforte yelled. "A bomb!"

  Several things seemed to happen at once, in slow motion. Ariste Buleforte pulled his wife down onto the grass and fell on top of her. The huge servitor broke into a lumbering run toward the whirling speck of red light, but it was clear that he would never make it in time. He was on the left of the group, and the bomb was going to land on the far right. Right past where Barnett and Cecily were standing.

  Without any conscious thought, Barnett shoved Cecily behind him, yelled, "Get down!" and took three running steps forward. He leapt into the air, his left hand raised to field the object, which smacked into his palm like a great hardball. His hand went numb, but he kept his hold on the massive iron globe.

  Barnett came down, switched the object to his right hand, and with one motion hurled it as hard as he could back where it came from.

  It arced through the air once again, the red spark spiraling toward the sky and arcing back to earth. And then, as it was almost at the end of its arc, the red spark disappeared.

  For a moment that seemed to Barnett long enough to remember every detail of his life that he might have trouble explaining to the recording angel, nothing happened. Then the earth shook, and the sky turned red orange, and a great hand came and slammed across Barnett's chest, knocking him down.

  CHAPTER EIGHT — DEATH IN VIENNA

  Per Me Si Va Nella Cittá Dolente,

  Per Me Si Va Nell' Eterno Dolore,

  Per Me Si Va Tra La Perduta Gente ...

  Lasciate Ogni Speranza Vol Ch'entrate!

  (This way to the city of sorrow,

  this way to eternal misery,

  this way to join the lost people ...

  abandon all hope, ye who enter here!)

  — Dante

  It was approaching noon on Friday. Paulus Leopold Hohensuchen, duke of Mecklenburg Strelitz, and his delicate and ethereal new bride the Princess Annamarie of Falkynburg, were on their way to make a formal call upon their imperial cousin, Franz Joseph, king of the dual monarchy and hereditary emperor of Austria-Hungary. Their for-state-visits-only gilded carriage, pulled by six finely matched grays, sandwiched between an honor guard of eight Household Cavalry officers in glittering uniforms, left the wide gates of their small Schloss on the Eugenegasse and proceeded to the wide and lovely Ringstrasse to make a formal circuit of Vienna's imposing circle of splendid municipal buildings before pulling in through the for-state-visits gate of the Hofburg.

  The people of Vienna were used to such spectacle as a gilded coach escorted by eight of their splendid Household Guards, all in gold and red and high-plumed busbies. But the people of Vienna loved spectacle, and everyone on the street paused to watch as the lovely procession passed, and turned to tell his neighbor just who it was, and just what the relationship of Archduke Leopold was to their much beloved Emperor Franz Joseph.

  By the monument to Maria Theresa, where the carriage would turn into the Hofgarten, a small platform had been erected and a cluster of people stood in front of it watching a puppet show in progress on the tiny stage. To one side, a small group of bureaucrats had paused on their way to lunch to watch the show, and they now turned toward the street as the carriage approached. Behind them waited a large Shugard Seuss revolver, stuck in the waistband of the student Carl Webel.

  Carl wore an all-enveloping green greatcoat several sizes too large for him and a wide brown cap that had been stuffed with newspapers in the sweatband to make it fit. These had been supplied by Number One, who insisted that he wear them. Why this was important in the great scheme of things Carl did not know, but the first thing taught to a young anarchist when he swears on the blood of his parents never to divulge the secrets of the Secret Freedom League is to obey orders. Carl pulled the cap down, turned up the collar on the green greatcoat, and peered through his wire-rimmed spectacles. The Ferret had wanted him to remove the spectacles but he had assured the Ferret that, if he was actually expected to hit anything, that was impossible. The Ferret had grudgingly agreed.

  The procession was just coming into sight around the curve of the Ringstrasse, unmistakable in its horse guard, state carriage, horse guard configuration. The remaining cluster of people watching the puppets turned and drifted over to line the street as the carriage approached. Carl Webel nervously unwrapped the scarf from around his neck and unbuttoned the green greatcoat. "Desperate times require desperate measures," he muttered; a litany he had learned from the Ferret, and one he firmly believed he believed.

  His right hand reached for the revolver and clasped its bulbous grip firmly. As the leading pair of horse guards clattered toward him, he pulled the pistol from his waistband and held it ready, under the greatcoat and over his heart.

  The horse guard rounded the corner. Webel tensed himself, ready to step out of the shadow, insert himself between a portly, red-faced man and his stocky, grossly over-mustached companion, and fire the revolver into the carriage as it came abreast of him. He tried to decide between "Death to the tyrant!" and "So perishes a vile oppressor of the people!" as the most impressive thing to yell as he fired.

  The moment of truth arrived. Webel brought the Shugard Seuss from under his coat and put his thumb on the hammer. The approaching carriage came into amazingly clear focus, while everything else around him retreated into a fog. His feet seemed to have glued themselves to the ground, and become impossibly heavy to move. With one last deep breath he pulled himself free and ran forward toward the carriage and, yelling "Death to the people! Death to the people!" fired the heav
y revolver repeatedly through the beautifully lacquered Mecklenburg Strelitz ducal arms on the carriage door.

  The coachman whipped the horses forward, following his instructions to get away from any such event as quickly as possible. The horse guards wheeled around and headed off in at least three different directions, searching for the cause of the gunfire. Webel turned and ran back through the crowd, which seemed to part before him. One man clutched at Webel's greatcoat in an effort to stop him but Webel, in a blood-fury of exhilaration and fear, brought the Shugard Seuss revolver down sharply on the man's head and kept running.