Across the garden he saw a fine old Georgian house twice as wide as its neighbors, every window ablaze with light. Even at a hundred yards he could hear a low, happy roar from the open windows. It must be No. 57, the home of Skaggs’s friend Herbert Backhouse Rumpf. As Ben got nearer he realized that notwithstanding its Georgian style, no such mansion could have been built here a century or even fifty years ago—its eighteenth-century English grandeur was freshly fabricated, like that of every other house on the unfinished square.
Inside smelled of butcher’s wax and paint and perfume. Every inch was bright and perfect. The ballroom occupied the whole third story, and it was filled with two hundred chattering, laughing, expensively dressed people in their twenties and thirties. A few of the men wore tight pantaloons, and even old-fashioned breeches. Overhead hung six big crystal chandeliers, all burning gas, and on the floor precisely beneath each one was a Chinese porcelain pot: six spittoons. The music was a polka, performed by a five-man band—a pianist and cellist on the floor and, wedged into a cove in the wall just above them, a trumpeter, flutist, and banjo player. Ben watched a man light the cigarette of a chic young woman, then smelled the sulfur and smoke as she resumed fanning herself. From a distance, except for the spittoons and the banjo, he might have been in Mayfair or Belgravia.
“A Gin Sling for my well-dressed English friend, or a Brandy Smash? Take your pick, sir!”
It was Skaggs, holding a glass in each hand.
“Good evening, Mr. Skaggs.” Ben took the gin.
“We can also arrange for an ordinary, sugarless man’s drink if you find cocktails fulsome.”
“Your Mr. Rumpf is very grand.”
Skaggs glanced around. “More profligate and jovial than very grand, in fact. The wife is now the grand one.” He had introduced Sally Blair to Backy Rumpf ten years ago, when she was a concert saloon singer and Backy a would-be young publisher. The two men became friendly after Skaggs had arranged to keep Rumpf ’s name out of the Sun in connection with a certain trivial case of sexual and financial impropriety. And Rumpf had agreed to invest in his scurrilous, satirical new illustrated magazine, called Bedoozled—the very week in 1840 Skaggs was suddenly compelled to flee New York for the West. And so the smoking, drinking, whore-loving capitalist heir had invested his ten thousand dollars instead in Horace Greeley’s new anti-tobacco, pro-temperance, puritanical, socialist Tribune.
Skaggs and Ben touched glasses.
“Cheers,” Ben said.
“Az isten lova bassza meg,” Skaggs replied.
“What?”
“Az isten lova bassza meg,” he repeated. “The Magyar tongue.”
“You speak Hungarian, Mr. Skaggs?”
“Certainly not. But I was briefly in Transylvania last year, and on my first night in Bra¸sov I toasted a drunken stranger in a tavern. Well, the fellow became very angry and shouted, ‘Az isten lova bassza meg!’ In Transylvania, I discovered, clinking glasses is not done.”
“What on earth took you to Transylvania?”
“Some business in Munich.”
“But Munich is days away.”
“It is a long story…I had been led to understand that the Gazeta de Transilvania wished to pay an experienced American newspaperman a hundred dollars to tutor them for a month in sound American newspaper practices. As it turned out, I was misinformed.”
“You are a man of many adventures.”
“Entirely profitless adventures. Although I did discover the meaning of ‘Az isten lova bassza meg,’ which is the most remarkable curse I have ever heard in my life.”
“Yes?”
“I oughtn’t,” Skaggs said, but proceeded with barely a pause. “God’s horse,” he whispered. “shall fuck you. God’s horse shall fuck you. A very strange people.”
Ben smiled and shook his head. He was blushing.
The little orchestra was playing a new piece by Johann Strauss, Jr.
As Skaggs gulped his sweet brandy, he caught sight behind Ben of someone he knew. “I am afraid,” he called out, “that this thirsty gentleman has filched your drink.”
“My goodness, a cocktail thief?” she replied. “Here on Gramercy Park?”
Ben did not recognize the low, gay voice until he turned and saw the lips from which it was purring. The shock caused his decorous 30-degree swivel to extend itself into a wild 90-degree swing to face her.
“Mary Ann Lucking!” he sputtered. With both hands he offered his glass to her.
“Thank you, no,” Polly said, smiling.
She lifted her little goblet of clove liqueur to show Ben. He looked faintly familiar, and she had a moment of panic that he might be a patron of Mrs. Stanhope’s. But she reminded herself that no visitor to 101 Mercer Street had ever heard her true name. Perhaps they had known each other as children in Dutchess County?
Ben, speechless, took a long sip of the gin she had refused.
Skaggs was pleased to see his new English friend flustered—indeed, Skaggs was always pleased to see almost any placid, respectable surface disturbed by passion or wonder.
“I am redundant, I see,” he said, “since you have already been introduced.”
“No, no,” Ben replied, as if a misunderstanding were about to snatch away bliss, “I—I attended Miss Lucking’s performance at the Greenwich Theatre, in Hamlet. I know her only as a fine actress. Extraordinarily fine.”
Now Polly was shocked. Strangers had seldom recognized her from the stage, and none, ever, had praised her acting so enthusiastically. And he was English, which gave his praise a certain imprimatur.
“Well!” Skaggs exclaimed as he looked at the delight and hunger in his friends’ faces. “As I have said, good fortune is all in the timing, eh? Did my heart love till now? Mademoiselle,” he said to Polly, “permit me to introduce you to Mr. Benjamin M. M. Knowles, formerly of Mayfair, London.”
Both bowed more deeply than they had since childhood.
Ben was caught off guard again when Skaggs announced the latest arrival by speaking loudly past him over his left shoulder.
“A brand-new song for you, Duff—and you too, Knowles,” Skaggs said, raising his brandy toward the musicians, “The ‘Revolutionsmarsch.’ Composed in the streets of Vienna as they ran off Prince Metternich. Imported to free America through the good offices of our host.”
Ben did not want to look away from Polly.
“Mr. Lucking,” Skaggs said, grabbing Ben’s attention as if with a slap, “let me present Mr. Knowles.”
As they reached to shake each other’s hand and exchange the minimum necessary greeting—“Sir,” “Sir”—both simmered with contempt.
Duff ’s scar turned a bright scarlet. He now knew for certain that their earlier encounters—shooting at Barnum’s gallery, walking on West Broadway after midnight—hadn’t been accidents. And now the dirty sneak, he thought, has insinuated himself into Skaggs’s affections so as to observe me at close range.
Mary Ann and Duff Lucking: Ben now knew for certain that this gangling, grim-faced blond whelp was indeed her husband, her deeply undeserving husband, and that his own love was doomed.
“Who is your employer?” Duff asked Ben sharply.
“Duff Lucking,” Polly said to her brother. She was mortified. “Are you drunk?”
Skaggs was amused by Duff ’s surliness. “Mr. Knowles was formerly a banker in London, Duff, if that is what’s troubling you—but I believe he has now repented of both capitalism and l’ancien régime.”
“A moneyman, eh? English, are you?” Duff asked, his suspicions changing form from the specifically sinister (detective, spy, skulking assassin) to the more categorically objectionable (banker, British). In Mexico among his Irish mates, his native American suspicion of the mother country had been honed to the beginnings of hatred. “You’ve come here from England?”
Ben glared. “I have,” he replied.
“And how may we be sure of that?” Duff asked. “Your accent aside.”
Skaggs was
as bewildered as Polly by the men’s instant mutual antipathy.
“Because, my churlish young fellow,” said Skaggs, laying a palm gently on Duff ’s shoulder, “it was I who discovered Mr. Knowles last month at sea, aboard his steamer from Liverpool.”
Duff started to relax. It seemed wildly unlikely that the army or even rich, ruthless Knickerbockers like the Primes would import a detective all the way from England on his account.
“And I am afraid that you, Mr. Lucking,” Skaggs continued, grabbing a glass of whiskey off a passing waiter’s silver tray and handing it to Duff, “require this urgently. And let me explain to you why Mr. Knowles here should be your hero…”
As ever, Polly had an urge both to comfort and wallop her brother. And to explain him to this long-haired, sweet-eyed, strangely eager pal of Timothy Skaggs’s whom Duff had offended for no good reason.
She pushed her face to within a few inches of Ben’s. His fragrance was…effeminate, she thought at first, and then realized why—no sour tobacco-juice funk, the characteristic aroma of the American male. He could smell the clove on her breath.
“I am terribly sorry for the rudeness you’ve suffered, Mr. Knowles,” she said. “Permit me—”
“Oh no, no harm done, Mrs. Lucking, I only—”
“Please permit me to apologize on my brother’s behalf, Mr. Knowles. He has been under a terrible strain.”
Ben’s mood improved so quickly and completely, as if by magic, that he was not yet consciously aware that she had called Duff her brother. The little orchestra was now playing the fourth movement of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony—Ode to Joy.
“He took our mother’s death in ’46 very hard,” Polly continued, speaking softly, “and then he shipped off straightaway to the war. In Mexico? He has suffered greatly…as you can see. And he was always a terribly passionate boy.”
Deliriously, just short of delusionally, Ben heard her last whispered words—passionate boy—as a lover’s fond, teasing coo. As she spoke, his eyes darted to her mouth, to the pink daffodil over her ear, to her flicking tortoiseshell fan, then to her lips again, and her green eyes.
Skaggs delighted in what he called “moments of ordinary alchemy,” when people and sensibilities were flung together and transformed into some new glowing thing, like gold and silver into electrum. But tonight he had been the alchemist, and his dangerous experimental alloys—Duff with Ben, Ben with Polly, Duff and Polly with bon ton society—already looked strange and marvelous.
As soon as Duff learned that Skaggs’s English friend knew about engines, had abandoned his titled family, and risked death in a battle with the French tyrant’s army across Europe, Ben was remade in his eyes as a noble knight-errant.
Ben had never met a fireman, or any young man who had fought in a real war. He was full of interested, respectful questions about both.
When Ben mentioned that he had been absolutely entranced by the sight, in his fourteenth year, of the old Houses of Parliament on fire, Duff practically fell in love.
“As it happens, the new buildings are actually much superior, I think,” Ben said.
“Destruction and creation are the cycle of life,” replied Duff.
Indeed, having simultaneously learned each other’s true identities, Duff and Ben both experienced deep, almost identical surges of relief and shame which in turn reinforced in each man a sudden strong sympathy and bond that neither altogether understood. Each wanted to protect the other.
AS THE NIGHT crackled along, Ben grew more spellbound by Duff ’s sister. So often in London or Kent he had admired the hair and smile and figure of some pretty new girl in the park or across a room until the moment she spoke and revealed herself as a ninny or a spoiled brat…whereupon her comeliness would ebb and disappear before his eyes. But not here, not her, as the drinks and conversation gave way to—good Lord—dancing. Each time Ben and Polly danced together (two quicksteps, a quadrille, an ordinary polka, and a slow, divine schottische), he wanted to pull her close and breathe her scent and tell her more, to utter every excessive, worshipful, and foul thought coursing through his brain.
And watching Skaggs quickstep with her, and chatter and roister around the party, alienating or charming everyone with whom he came in contact, Ben thought of Ashby’s similar knack for inspiring instant fondness and contempt, and realized that his new friend and his late friend had blended in his mind. All for one, one for all! Ashby had shouted in Paris an hour before he died, and now in New York, as they all rose and left the dinner tables, Ben felt a little embarrassed by his own infatuated whimsy that he was d’Artagnan joining these intimates, this band of three musketeers, as their fourth.
Polly was delighted to see her brother suddenly so loose and easy and curious, the way he had been before the war had twisted and darkened him—he even danced with her twice. And Skaggs always pleased her best not alone in his rooms but playing the twinkling mischief-maker out in society.
She found this Mr. Knowles a little fascinating—his accent and recent adventures and promiscuous praise for her acting, of course, but also the fact that he was a man devoted to turning over a new leaf when the old leaf (family, work, income) sounded so fine. And his looks—the height, the shaggy hair, the long nose, the reticent smile, the alert brown eyes—she found appealing. He was if anything too solicitous, offering to fetch another éclair or clove liqueur and paying her compliments (the shine of her boots, her knowledge of Voltaire) that exceeded even her appetite for flattery. She was sometimes unsettled by gentlemen at 101 Mercer who worked themselves into rhapsodic frenzies…but then she remembered that Mr. Knowles was no customer, that she had deserted whoredom. It had been a very long time since she had flirted at such length with a stranger without any prospect of payment.
For a few minutes Ben found himself surveying the party alone, smiling.
“And what mysterious thought amuses you so, Mr. Knowles?” Polly asked, returning to his side. “Some peculiar local buffoonery?”
“No mystery at all, I assure you,” he replied. “I am the only buffoon in this place making myself smile. I find everything—everything is perfectly…perfect.”
She looked at him a little askance. Earlier he had not seemed arch or jocular at all, nor did he seem drunk now. “Are you toying with me, Mr. Knowles? Or perhaps your fondness for Voltaire drives you to impersonate not Candide but Dr. Pangloss.”
“Dear Miss Lucking, my love of—in this best of all possible worlds, Mr. Rumpf ’s castle is the most magnificent of all castles…and my lady the best of all possible ladies.”
She blushed, he grinned like a fool, and she smiled at his grin, which made it grow more ridiculously wide, which finally caused her to giggle and shake her head.
Duff and Skaggs happened to arrive at the same moment from opposite ends of the room. Now all four looked from one to the other, exchanging smiles and, for a long moment, saying nothing.
It was queer.
“All for one and one for all,” Skaggs finally said, waving his hand in the air as if he held a saber.
ALL AROUND THEM the servants were treating the tablecloths like tarpaulins, wrapping into bundles all the dishes, cutlery, and scraps of food where they sat.
“Mr. Knowles,” Skaggs said, “if I may impose upon you—several self-important gentlemen are begging to arrange an audience with you before we leave. They crave your insights into the European revolutions.”
Duff had taken out his watch and turned to his sister. “Shall I drive you home, Polly? It’s nearly twelve. I have—I have some work to finish before dawn.”
No! She knew Duff was conscientious about his postering jobs, which were only done late at night. And she had picked up her copy of Burton’s Dombey manuscript this afternoon; the cast was gathering on Saturday morning, the day after tomorrow, to read the play aloud together for the first time. She ought to spend all of Friday studying her part. She ought to get some sleep. Yes. “Yes,” she said, “we must go.”
She took Ska
ggs’s hand in both of hers. “You are a good and generous friend.” They exchanged a complicated look.
“Mon plaisir, mademoiselle.” He bowed and kissed her hand, and then her cheek.
“This was a great fandango,” Duff said, shaking Skaggs’s hand. “Thanks!”
“‘Fandango’?” Skaggs repeated. “I need to start a word journal of my own.”
“You will give Mr. and Mrs. Rumpf our heartfelt thanks?” Polly said, like the respectable girl her mother had trained her to be.
“Mmm, well,” Skaggs replied, “perhaps another time. Backy is nearly unconscious, and Sally is angry with me for what I told her ridiculous snobby friends about their ridiculous snobby scheme to rename ‘their’ stretch of the Bowery ‘the Third Avenue.’”
Polly turned to Ben. “I very much enjoyed making your acquaintance, Mr. Knowles.” And she sincerely had. “Thank you for disguising so well my ignorance of the polka.”
A thick cable of her hair had come loose and dangled over her left temple. As she smiled, the corner of her mouth stretched up toward that loose lock. To Ben she radiated the kind of glamour one reads about in stories and poems, the bewitching glow he had been certain did not actually exist. God, how I love you, my dearest darling Polly Lucking, and ache to have you in my arms now and forever, to follow and lead you, to adore and caress you, to see and taste every sweet exquisite corner of your body and soul.
He took her hand. “I consider myself extremely fortunate, Miss Lucking, to have met you. And your good brother. I hope we may see each other again before very long.”
DUFF HAD NOT lied to his sister—he did have a job, seventy-two posters to stick up around Greenwich Village. But he also had another task to accomplish before morning, well to the east.
No one lived there, and the shackly little shed wasn’t worth a hundred dollars anyway. He would confess to a priest what he was about to do. Although he wasn’t certain it would even count as a sin, given the sinful acts Fatty and his b’hoys undoubtedly committed there, at the place on the vacant lot in Avenue D they called their “jamboree penthouse.”
Heyday: A Novel Page 32