Largo’s hand drifted to his jacket. He touched the knife. Branca ignored him. He pictured the older man falling to the floor, blood streaming from his throat. Then he pictured the same thing happening to Parvulesco, Hanna, and his other friends. How many of them would the Nachtvogel hurt if he did anything foolish? Largo hated that Branca knew him so well that he could predict the limits of his actions, but it was true and he’d have to learn to live with it. He dropped his hand to his side and said, “Have you learned anything about Remy?”
“No. But we’re still making inquiries. I’ll let you know when we find something.”
Largo considered the idea. “Why would you do that?”
Branca put his hands flat on his desk. “I know you can’t comprehend it right now, but we want you to be happy. It’s why I’m concerned about your self-abuse. Have you considered that you’re more dangerous to yourself than I am?”
“How did you come to that conclusion?”
“Because I’m not going to throw you in front of a tram or under a juggernaut. You, on the other hand, weaving through the streets drunk or dizzy from morphia, will likely do it yourself.”
Branca had a point. It had rained the night before and he’d taken a turn too quickly that morning. The bicycle slipped on the wet pavement and he almost went under the wheels of a limousine coming out of Schöne Maschinen. Instead of being scared, he’d laughed about it all the way to work. What if that was the Baron’s car? He’d missed a good opportunity for revenge.
Branca’s next question did frighten him a little. “Why were you on Krahe Vale this morning?”
Largo rubbed his aching eyes and said, “I wanted to go by Schöne Maschinen.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think it’s safe to assume that your appointment with the Baron has been canceled.”
Can the Nachtvogel read minds too?
“I know. I just wanted to see it.”
“Now that you have, I hope you’ll be more careful in the future,” said Branca.
“I intend to.”
Branca picked up his pen. “Is there anything else you wanted to discuss?”
“In fact, I was curious about something,” said Largo.
Branca sighed wearily. “Oh?”
“On the way to work, I rode through the Great Triumphal Square. They’re erecting flagpoles around it and all down the boulevard. Do you know anything about that?”
“Why do you care? After a lifetime of political indifference are you suddenly interested in the affairs of state?”
“It just . . . felt different. The city seems strange. I saw couples coming out of the underground tram tunnels snapping at each other. Two businessmen were practically coming to blows outside Fräulein Sabel. It was too early in the morning for them to be drunk. I wondered if the flagpoles might have something to do with it.”
“You have a better eye than I would have given you credit for, especially hungover.”
Largo said, “Then I was right about the flagpoles?”
“In a way. The poles, and the flags that will soon fly, are to buoy people’s spirits as war creeps ever closer.”
“Then you really think it’s going to happen.”
“It’s better to rally a nation for a war that doesn’t happen than to be caught off guard.”
Largo suddenly wanted another drink. “Then the war might not happen?”
Branca leaned on his desk, looking a bit exasperated. “No, the war will happen. It’s inevitable, and it will be worse than the previous one. The enemy is making material preparations, but so are we. Now it’s time to prepare people spiritually.”
The easy way that Branca talked about another war left Largo numb. “I see. Thank you.” He took his receipt book and a cardboard tube from the Mara.
While he was wrestling the tube into his shoulder bag, Branca said, “Do you think you’ll go this time?”
Largo looked at him. “To war, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe. Would you let me go if I wanted to?”
“No,” said Branca.
“Then why did you ask?”
“Idle curiosity. Have a good day.”
Once he had the tube in place, Largo said, “I’m doing what you want. And I promise to stop drinking. But leave Parvulesco and Hanna alone.”
Branca seemed to think it over. “All right. You uphold your end of the bargain and I’ll make sure no harm comes to your friends.”
“Thank you.”
Largo got on his bicycle and headed out of the front gates. He knew that the bargain should make him feel better, but it didn’t. I’ve just agreed to do anything the Nachtvogel wants. And in the end, they might still betray me. But what else is there to do? Largo knew he wasn’t a planner or schemer. He’d drifted through life too long for that. At least Parvulesco and Hanna were safe for the moment. If he had to make an even more dreadful deal in the future to protect them, he’d do that too. This is my life now. Do as little for Branca and as much for my friends as I can. Who knows? Maybe war will be a good thing.
He remembered a film about High Proszawa during the Great War. After the invasion, a chef took a job with the enemy, cooking for their officers. He did an exemplary job and was treated well. However, on the night of the counteroffensive from Lower Proszawa, he poisoned the entire command staff. After his capture, his interrogators asked him to name his allies. He said, “My balls and your chaos.” He recalled the audience erupting into applause at that. If war came, Largo knew there would be ample chaos. What he didn’t know was whether he had the balls to murder Branca before Branca murdered him.
Right now, the answer was no.
But only time would tell.
When Largo got home that night, someone was waiting for him in his flat.
From a corner of the room a shadow said, “Largo, it’s me. Margit. Don’t be scared.”
He fell back against the wall and pulled his knife, but didn’t get a good grip on it. When it fell it slid across the room. Margit picked it up and handed it back to him. “God. Are you drunk?”
“No, you startled me. And I just took a little morphia on the way upstairs.”
Margit sat on the table. “I see. They’re paying you in morphia. How nice it must be not having to spend your own money anymore.”
Largo sat in a chair on the other side of the room. “What do you want?”
“I want you to take responsibility for what you’re doing.”
“Did Pietr send you to finish me off? Feel free, just don’t lecture me.”
Margit picked up the whiskey bottle, looked at the level of liquor left inside, and set it down again. “Feeling sorry for yourself because you were arrested? You were in and out in a day. You even got a ride home in Branca’s big shiny car.”
Largo pointed at her. “You’ve been spying on me.”
“I was looking out for you. Our group has bullock contacts. We might have been able to trade something for you. Instead, you walked out the front door in a new shirt and jacket, pretty as a bride on her wedding day.”
The morphia had left him tired and his brain fuzzy, but something didn’t make sense. “You were looking out for me? Why?”
Margit checked her watch. “We need someone like you. You know every inch of Lower Proszawa. Most of us didn’t grow up here so we have to use maps and it slows down our operations.”
Largo crossed his legs. “Where are you from?”
“What does that matter?”
“Idle curiosity.”
In an exasperated tone Margit said, “I’m from Goslarburg.”
Largo burst out laughing. “Oh my god. You’re a damn farm girl. Did you milk cows and have a favorite chicken you hid so your mother wouldn’t cook it?”
Margit turned back to him. “Are you done?”
“For the moment.”
“Will you help us?”
Largo tried to stand, but he couldn’t. He crossed his legs instead.
“This is funny, actually. Branca said you’d ask me for a favor, and here you are.”
“This isn’t a favor. It’s an opportunity to redeem yourself. You’ve always been a wastrel, but you weren’t a spy and a killer.”
“I’ve never killed anyone.”
“You’re going to,” said Margit. “All these people you’ve been collecting information on, what do you think is going to happen to them? The Nachtvogel doesn’t give out fines. People disappear and are never heard from again.”
“And that will happen to me if they find out you’re here.”
Margit shook her head. “Don’t worry. My friend Dieter is outside and he loves pretending to have the Drops. It scared your minder right off.”
“Clever, but my minder will be back tonight and then I’m sure someone else will watch me in the morning.”
“The Nachtvogel only watches new conscripts for a week.”
“Why only a week?” said Largo.
Margit scraped some loose paint off the table with a fingernail. “At the end of the week they decide if you’re useful and obedient enough to live.”
Largo laughed again. “Then my troubles should be over in a few days, one way or the other.”
“And in the meantime, how many innocent people will you betray?”
He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “Tell me. If I don’t agree to work with you, will you kill me?”
“It’s been discussed.”
Largo ticked off the names on his fingers. “So, you’re going to kill me, the Nachtvogel is going to kill me, and Baron Hellswarth will eventually hire someone to kill me . . . Have I left anyone out?”
Margit’s voice rose. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. We’ve all lost friends and lovers.”
“This is my first, so forgive me if I don’t rally by supper.”
Margit opened her hands pleadingly. “Don’t you see that we can help each other?” she said. She leaned toward him. “The people who have you under their thumb are the ones we want to stop.”
“You and your friends at the Black Palace are going to print tracts so withering that the Nachtvogel will simply drop dead? Now that really is clever.”
“Stop trying to be clever yourself. We want to bring them down and the government along with them.”
Largo sat stiffly. “And who will you anoint as Chancellor? Pietr?”
“Pietr is dead,” said Margit quietly. “He was murdered by the bullocks two days ago while hanging posters. That’s what they’re doing now. If they suspect you’re a dirty radical, they don’t even arrest you anymore. You just get a bullet in the head. Or worse.”
“What’s worse?”
“They beat him to death. Cracked his head open like an egg on the curb.”
Largo thought about Pietr at the Black Palace and how he’d threatened him with a wrench at Schöne Maschinen. He remembered the frantic chase along the docks. But the image of the man’s head split open shook him. “That’s horrible.”
Margit stood up. “Yes, it is. But you can help us stop it from happening to your friends.”
“Haven’t you heard? I murdered Remy. I don’t have friends.”
“Stop it. They’re using that to control you. Why do you think no one has found Remy or her body? Branca knows that as long as you think they’re looking for her you’ll be his errand boy.”
Largo thought about it. “You think they’re holding her somewhere? Do you have proof?”
“No. But it’s obvious if you think about the situation with a clear head.”
“No, it’s not. The Baron is going out of his mind, and he’s a lot more important than I am. If the government is planning for war, Schöne Maschinen has to run well. They wouldn’t want to distract the man who runs it all.”
A sly smile played at the edges of Margit’s mouth. “How do you know he’s not being blackmailed too?”
“Blackmail Baron Hellswarth? You’ve been reading too much of your own propaganda.”
Margit checked her watch again. “It isn’t safe for me to stay much longer.”
Largo waved a hand at the door. “Don’t let me keep you.”
“I know you feel like the whole world is against you, but that’s the time to act,” said Margit. “If you don’t want to help us, don’t you at least want revenge on the people who’ve ruined your life?”
Largo felt light-headed, like he was falling. He held on to the arms of the chair. “I want to kill them all. The bullocks. The Maras. The Nachtvogel. Everyone in the government who’s calmly planning the next war. When I close my eyes, all that’s there is Remy or Branca’s blood.”
“Then help us.”
“You didn’t answer me earlier. Are you and your dozen or so friends planning on bringing down the government alone?”
“There’s a lot more of us than what you saw at the Black Palace.”
Largo shrugged. “Then you don’t need me.”
Margit stood up. “That’s your final word, then?”
“I want to be left alone.”
She started for the door. “That’s your problem, Largo. There is no alone anymore. I hope you figure that out before it’s too late.”
He called after her, “Or you’ll kill me like the bullocks did Pietr?”
She stopped with the doorknob in her hand. “I’m sorry I said that. I was angry. I won’t bother you again.”
“Why do you need me anyway? You said you have maps.”
She turned to him. “The maps haven’t been updated since the war. Streets have changed. Buildings have come down. We need to know how to get around the city without being seen.”
Largo got up and retrieved the last of the whiskey from the table. “Where are you going that’s so important?”
“Why should I tell you?”
He took a drink. “Forget it. Go away.”
Margit paused for a moment. “We want to get a friend from a secret lockup in Pappengasse.”
“What’s the nearest street corner?”
“Pilzeberg.”
He took the cap off the bottle. “That’s easy. There’s an old coal plant on Ott. Go in through the eastern side. Two floors down is a tunnel system that goes all over the district. Whenever it branches, stay to the left. You’ll come out less than a block from the intersection.”
Margit took a couple of steps toward him. “What if something goes wrong and we can’t go back that way?”
“Go down Pilzeberg to the night market,” he said. “Behind a little dance hall tent is a dead-end alley. There’s a wall, with razor wire at the top.”
“Then what use is it?”
Largo raised a finger at the ceiling. “The razor wire was put up by night market thieves. It’s fake. Just rubber and Bakelite. You can climb right under it.”
For the first time, Margit smiled. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now get out before Dieter breaks a leg. He must be getting tired of rolling around in the street.”
Largo sat in the dark, wanting to finish the whiskey, but stopped himself when he remembered his deal with Branca. He turned on the wireless to listen to music, but the Foreign Minister was giving an impassioned speech.
Fuck. Can’t I ever get away from you people anymore?
He turned the wireless off and fell asleep in the chair, dreaming of the Grand Dark. Remy was controlling all the puppets from backstage. They danced and caressed each other and it reminded him of Anita Mourlet. Then they fell to the floor in convulsions. Largo tried to go backstage to Remy, but he was too dizzy from morphia to move. He sat there listening to the puppets’ limbs snap and break. It seemed to go on all night.
The next day, Largo delivered a notice from the tax office to a fur merchant in the Händler district and decided to stop at a nearby café for lunch. The crowd was drunk and high on cocaine, and for a moment the city felt as it had before Remy had disappeared. He was jealous of the diners’ oblivious merriment. The jealousy quickly turned to anger. He was about to leave
when a waiter arrived.
He ordered tea and a slice of stollen as a crowd gathered around a small truck on the other side of the plaza. A tall blond man began an impassioned speech, but Largo couldn’t hear a word of it. Plus, he wasn’t interested. He was thinking about Margit’s visit the previous night.
What the hell did she mean by “There is no alone anymore”? Of course there is. I’ve never been more alone in my life. If joining her idiot’s crusade is the only way to change that, I’ll happily remain where I am.
The crowd by the truck was a mix of upper-class Händler residents and local shopkeepers. The speaker held a small Proszawan flag as he spoke. The group applauded politely whenever he stopped to draw a breath.
Largo was thinking about Remy again, going over different scenarios in his mind. In one, she really had been killed, but by whom? A jealous admirer who gave her a jade vase and expected her to love him for it? In another scenario, she’d been killed during an attempted kidnapping. In yet another, she’d staged the whole thing herself to get away from Largo and all the other men in her life who wanted things from her.
As the crowd grew around the truck, a rougher group from Granate, along with some nearby laborers, joined the mix. Soon, as many people were booing the speaker as applauding. This encouraged even louder applause and hoots from one part of the crowd, which set off louder boos from the other. Largo put down his tea as the café went quiet to watch the shouting match.
Another possibility was that Remy had died from her convulsions or, worse, the Drops, and that the Baron had helped stage the violent scene to avoid a press scandal. He hadn’t intended for Largo to get caught up in the mess but now that he was, the Baron had to go along with it or reveal the plot. It was almost funny. A game. How many ridiculous scenarios can I come up with before I finish lunch or go insane?
Largo went back to his tea and cake as the crowd outside began singing patriotic songs. As they shouted, tuneless music reached the café, and several older men stood with their hands over their hearts. Even the waiters came up front to see what was happening. One of them turned to Largo.
“Do you know what’s going on? Who’s angry about what?” he said.
The Grand Dark Page 29