The first waltz complete, there’s a trade of claps, and partners are exchanged as onlookers buy and sell gossip behind their hands. Close by me, a young debutante curtsies at a flame-haired lieutenant, only to be passed over by him. Her cheeks burn pink as he selects a prettier version, and swaggers with her to the dance floor. A coven of ladies delight in the girl’s shame, fingertips clasped to their pale chests, as she makes hastily for the door. I pity her—she’s barely out of childhood—and gently nuzzle her hand as she passes. She’s annoyed at finding that only a dog seeks her attention, snaps her hand away and hurries on. Chastened, I drop back into the shadow behind the door.
‘In all the animal kingdom,’ a man says next to me, ‘are not humans the most savage?’ He gestures his glass towards the retreating debutante. ‘At least I noted your kindness, good sir.’ Such is his gravitas, his air of shrewd melancholy, it takes a moment for me to notice he’s still young. With his athletic physique, thick curls of mahogany hair, handsome square jaw and cleft chin, he reminds me of someone, perhaps a soldier of old Rome captured in one of the statues there. Or maybe even Vilder, the impressive version that I met in London. Looking over to him, he’s sunk in the corner, drunk, whilst his lookalike leans rakishly against the wall, one arm bandaged in a coloured sling, a cigar between his teeth and smoke drifting about his face.
‘Indeed, if I had my way, this ball would be peopled entirely by your species, and by bears and cats and all the good creatures.’ He takes a slug of red wine, before motioning his braced arm and whispering, ‘That is why I play the invalid. To save me from their claws.’ I like him; he shines in a way that few humans do. He has warmth, a captivating air of unconventionality, and the odour of books and freshly pressed linen. I sense, as with my master, he’s intelligent enough to take the world very seriously, but himself very little. All of a sudden he crouches, puts down his glass, takes hold of my jaw and stares into my eyes. ‘Who are you?’ he says. There’s a thrilling note of vetiver about him, a whisper of the east, the signature of an adventurer. ‘Do I know you? I feel we are old friends you and I.’ He’s so direct and earnest. It’s as if he were talking to a human, or one at least that had been transfigured into a dog.
‘Have you met our famous English baron?’
Two females have come to present themselves like exhibits in a shop window, one in her vigorous middle-age, a forgery of a lady, and her younger companion.
‘George Byron,’ my companion rejoins with a brief nod. ‘Le diable boiteux. Enchanté.’
The ingénue blushes almost the colour of a bruise.
‘Le baron is not just an heroic gallivant,’ the older lady purrs, ‘but a great poet and intellectual.’
‘And just about to be a father too. More fool I.’ He retrieves his glass and drains the wine from it. ‘If you ever have the fortune to wed, mademoiselle, find yourself one such as this.’ He clasps his palm to my head. ‘I once had the notion to marry with my Newfoundland dog, Boatswain, but feared society would not abide the union of two males.’ There is such strength and warmth in his fingers; I feel as bashful as the ingénue. ‘Goodbye, friend,’ he says to me. ‘I have not even half your kindness and must drink away my sorrows. Mesdames.’ He gives another bow and he limps off.
‘The man is a lunatic.’ The older lady bristles, before taking her companion in the other direction. ‘And rude with it. Why does everyone talk about him? Come, let us find a French poet.’
As the dances gets noisier and more abandoned and sweat begins to mist the air, Sporco becomes intoxicated, no longer sitting, but seeming to bounce to the rhythm. When the tempo of the band quickens for a quadrille, he begins to let out a whine, quiet at first, but climbing up and down with the music. The dance accelerates into its final riotous reel and the audience cheers, whilst the dancers whirlwind to a rush of silk and flickers of gilt from soldiers’ uniforms. Sporco charges through them to the middle point, throws his head back, balloons his ribs and howls.
It’s an astonishing sound, as unexpected as a whale cry. He holds the note for as long as his breath allows, then fills his lungs and bellows again. Bewildered, several dancers break from the round, and some of the musicians stop playing. Their leader tries to count them back in, but Sporco gives a third magnificent trumpet. No one can compete, the music unravels and the remaining dancers bump to a halt, turning to the golden-haired dog in the centre of the floor. Guests jostle to see over shoulders and crane their necks through doorways. Only I know what he is howling—
‘The realms! The realms! The realms!’
In the corner, Vilder has fallen asleep.
Claudina pushes through, scoops up Sporco and bombards him with kisses. ‘Meraviglioso! Bellissimo! What a wonderful singer!’
The dance continues, but for the rest of the evening Sporco, like a dashing prince at his first public parade, is the star. He remains in Claudina’s white-gloved arms, gracious and serious with success, coat lustrous with pride, as she tours the mansion, from teeming ballroom to riotous drawing room. I watch from my lookout by the orchestra as he’s fawned upon and advised by the tycoons of Europe. They’re thrilled, for once, to enjoy a thing as simple as a dog—‘Il cane miracolosa,’ ‘Die wunderbare hund’—for once no need to brood over gold and stock, to worry their peers don’t respect them, or their daughters are ugly or their sons wayward. Sporco is their new mascot, the very talisman of their rare society, for this evening at any rate. Champagne corks pop and pop. Glasses overflow, conversations slur, couples whisper in corners, the dancing grows yet messier and the gentle scents of before mutate into dirty-sweet smells, feral and fleshy. To the late-stayers goulash is served, but their brains have become too addled for food and half-eaten plates are discarded at the edges of tabletops and silk chaises.
Finally, when the band stops and the ballroom starts to empty out, Vilder wakes, a crumpled mess. Though his head must be pounding, he reaches for his bottle—his fourth time by my count—and drains it down, before getting to his feet and swaying across the room. My friend from before, George Byron, is leaning against the fireplace, lighting another cigar and watching the guests depart. Vilder stops dead and gawks at him, with what could be revulsion or fascination, or both. Byron returns the stare so candidly, it takes Vilder by surprise. He blinks and, for a moment, he seems to admire the Englishman, before his shoulders drop and his head lowers. ‘A curse on you all,’ he mutters to himself and shambles out.
‘It’s time,’ I say to Sporco, but find he’s fallen asleep under a chair. ‘My friend—’ I’m about to nudge him, when a notion strikes me like a shock of ice.
I should leave him. He could not find a better home than this, and Claudina already loves him. He’ll live a long life here, never wanting for anything. Claudina is the most ideal of guardians, fascinating and young, the latter vital if Sporco is to grow old with her. There’s nothing more heartbreaking than a creature losing its life companion in its frail final years, as La Perla did. No, even though I’ve grown used to him and will miss his rascally ways, he must stay. I go, but stop in the doorway.
I should bid him farewell at least. Most certainly our paths will never cross again, as his life will pass in moments compared to mine. But if I wake him, he’ll want to tag along for sure. ‘The pack,’ he’ll say. How boyish and innocent he looks curled up under the chair, too polite to sleep anywhere but the floor, unspoilt and used to hardship, poor soul. No. That is the reason I must leave him. My master would agree: it would not be fair to take him from such a fortunate place, on a journey with no determinate end. After all, I have no home to give him. No, Claudina will come looking for him soon and carry him to bed. It will be sumptuous and she’ll insist he always sleeps on it. He’ll dream there, little legs tucked together in pairs, soft and neat on the sheet. And in the morning she’ll chat with him as she dresses in her armoire that smells of sweet chamomile. He’ll become, as I once was, a palace hound, a four-legged co
urtier, a lover of the orchestra and fine society. He’ll be sad for a while, finding me gone, but he’ll be thankful in the end. Spotting our hostess again on the landing, still smiling, though she must surely ache from tiredness, I am convinced and go.
At the bottom of the stairs, the musicians are all gathered, cloaks on and instrument cases in their hands. A footman is passing amongst them, offering little glasses of brandy on a tray. One of them accepts and there’s a collective laugh, and they all take one. The scene could be unremarkable but fills me with unexpected comfort. It strikes me how gentle the musicians are, and how each one has a history; each one has come to the decision—for some of them, no doubt, at a great cost—to devote their life to music, an art form that is, by definition, utterly impermanent, for it vanishes the moment it appears. And in turn, the people, their hosts and audience, are grateful to them. The glasses of brandy are a token of friendship between humans, a friendship that surely goes back to the beginning of time.
It’s the quiet hour before dawn and the square before the house is full of hazy motion, departing guests, carriage wheels on cobbles, yawning drivers. Vilder sways through it and disappears up the street we came down earlier. Tramping after him, past the fountain where I washed Sporco earlier, I can’t help remembering the stolid phrase my master used so much in our latter years, ‘our duty.’ Inside, I sink a little, and the comfort of a moment ago, of the musicians and the brandy, turns against me—when I hear a familiar bark.
‘Wait!’
Sporco skitters across the square, frantic and muddled. ‘Did you say we were going? I didn’t hear you. Did you say? I heard nothing.’
‘Sssh, you go back to sleep. I’m leaving, and you—you—’
He blinks at me, batting his oversized brows, as he begins to understand a calamity is afoot. Though even in the face of it, he has time to sniff my backside. For once, out of commiseration, I return the favour—and I’m struck by how robust and healthy his glands are.
‘Look,’ Sporco says, his tail stiffening.
Vilder has stopped halfway up the street in front of a shop, a pharmacy, I can tell from the carboy in the window—a bulbous glass container filled with unnaturally light blue liquid. He bangs on the door. ‘Apririe adesso! Open up! I need assistance.’ He bangs louder, and Sporco creeps to my side. ‘Open, goddamn you, I am ill.’ On his third rap, an upstairs window opens and a man in a nightcap puts his head out.
‘Siamo chiusi.’
‘It’s urgent. I’m ill. I have need of laudanum. By accident I have travelled without it.’ He totters drunkenly.
‘We open at seven. Goodnight, Signor.’ The pharmacist shuts the casement emphatically.
‘I’m sick, do you hear me?’ Vilder persists, rattling the door handle. ‘Do you know who I am? You’ve made an enemy of me.’ He slaps his hand across the sign on the front. ‘Doctor Luigi Gasparelli. Doctor? Quack. I could buy this town a thousand times over. I could buy Venice. Europe. All those bottles you have back there, all those powders, they’re from our mines. My family’s mines. We ruled this continent, your pitiable little shop. Open up, goddamn you!’ He stumbles back, losing his balance, and his legs go up and he lands, head banging against a porch stone. He doesn’t move for a long time, the ringlets of his wig splashed over the step.
Sporco has frozen into a ball. ‘Is he dead?’
If only Sporco knew.
‘Our mines,’ Vilder murmurs pathetically. His chest shivers up and down and it takes me a moment to realize he’s crying. The dim, dry odour of loneliness seeps from his pores.
Go to him.
Ludicrous notion.
But my master would. Console him. I pad forward, but stop at the thought of him throwing me in the fire.
My master would forgive. Once, a young courtier in Naples, a troublesome, self-centred hothead, started a fight over a misunderstanding and took a knife to his cheek. My master calmed him, tended to his own wound, and later they became friends. ‘You see, how history can be changed?’ he said to me. ‘It’s never too late. Never too late to fashion the world how you dreamt it could be.’ When the courtier died decades later, he’d brought so many reforms to Naples, the whole city turned out for his funeral.
I go to Vilder and sit before him. It’s shocking, close up, how dishevelled he is, teeth discoloured, puce swags of skin beneath his eyes. He looks at me blankly with no recognition. ‘What? You want food? I have none. Go.’ I hold my ground. ‘Vai! Idiota.’ He gets to his feet. ‘Cursed creatures. Dogs.’ He spits on the ground. He’s halfway up the street when he slows down and his shoulders freeze. He swivels back. A change is coming upon his face, its features shifting, righting themselves. ‘Let me see you.’
He comes back and I hold my breath as he turns me about, gently, not like he did in Amsterdam. Seeing the crescent scar on the side of my stomach, he lets out a strangled caw. ‘It was you? At the cathedral. I saw you. Can I?’ he asks, gently feeling along my flank, touching the scar, the stone beneath. His hands shake. He puts them in the air, whisking them round and round, unable to find the words. ‘It is lunacy. You waited?!’
I chance a cautious sway of the tail. ‘You see, how history can be changed? It’s never too late.’ He reaches to stroke me, but pulls back his fist and hammers my skull. Blur of indigo, sludge brown. I fall, half aware of Sporco setting about him. Vilder seizes him by the scruff and throws him aside. He drags me by the tail, and Sporco attacks again. Terrible screams. He’s tossed to the wall. Vilder unholsters his pistol, aims and fires at Sporco. Everything slows as I jump. There’s a pall of smoke, a bullet driving through it. A steel slice of pain. The whites of Sporco’s eyes slant sideways. I cartwheel. The ground tips upside down. I fall on to it, hard.
‘Braune! Braune!’ Vilder calls.
The sky shivers, the stars spin and everything goes black.
* * *
The carriage starts moving and I slide to the floor. Blur of dirty chartreuse, ripped silk, tiny silver hands, lopsided shelves. Sporco stands over me. I should have left him with Claudina. Opaque silver clouds my vision, then black.
Hours pass, or days, I’ve no sense at all, and endlessly turning wheels batter the ground. It’s a blur of half-sleeping, half-waking, nonsensical dreams—a curly periwig darts through a forest, the king’s head tumbles from the scaffold, a cathedral unbuilds itself to its foundations, a pig asks politely how he’ll be cut up, ice breaks and dancers fall into the Thames.
Something warm and wet on my face. Sporco licking me. Muddled bovine stare. Above me, an oval of scratched glass, Vilder on the driver’s perch, wig like a storm cloud.
Little by little, I become more lucid. I’m inside the smoky-quartz carriage. Grimy windows, seats ripped to their ticking, gilt worn off the door handles, off the intaglio of three towers. I push on the handle with my nose. Both doors are locked tight.
‘Do you hurt?’ I ask Sporco. ‘Come sei bello!’ Claudina had said to him in Padua. He could be in her arms now, sleeping off the party. He squeezes his brows together, and pushes a nub of metal towards me. It’s a mangled bullet, the one that struck me—which my flesh has turned away. I’ve all but forgotten the sensation, but now I remember the price that must be paid: knife shards of unspeakable pain, brain freezing to ice. Delicately Sporco puts his snout to the place where the bullet struck, where my skin even now knots itself back together.
We’re ascending a mountain. All night we shunt back and forth. In the morning the carriage stops, and we listen to the sound of Vilder dismounting. There’s a babble of voices and the speedy unshackling and rebolting of harnesses.
As we take off again, Vilder shouts:
‘To Opalheim, go!’
8
CHRISTMAS EVE
The Carpathian Mountains, December 1627
We fled Amsterdam with nothing the night that Vilder attacked me. As soon as my master deemed it was
safe to stop—his paranoia about being followed had no limits, not then, nor for decades after—he searched out an apothecary, brought medicines and attended to my burns, having to bandage me at the shoulder where I’d been scorched through fur and flesh. In truth, I’d not been severely hurt and I healed quickly enough, but my master was so distressed on my behalf, so penitent, as if it had been his fault, I pretended early on there was little pain at all.
My master had used a gold ring to pay for our passage from Amsterdam and, apart from the clothes he was wearing, all he had left was the tortoiseshell box of powdered jyhr and a second ring, one studded with an emerald. He’d cherished it even more than the other, but had to sell it, a week or so into our journey, in order to survive.
We travelled south and east deeper and deeper into the continent, only ever stopping between changes of horses. As we journeyed, for days and then weeks, he never stopped checking behind us. It was natural, I suppose, given how Vilder had turned on us and swore he ‘would play god with us yet.’ And there was more in my master’s mind than Vilder’s threat. I could tell by the tempests that came and went across his face, which altered his posture and took speech from him, that deep emotions had been dredged up in Amsterdam.
Finally, after a voyage of a month, we came upon a little village in the Carpathian hills hidden amongst the mountains and forests, as remote an outpost as could be found—and we let a cottage opposite the church. My burns had all but healed, and I could breathe as normal again.
Unlocking the front door to a little cloud of dust and finding a small plain parlour, he said, ‘We shall make this home.’ Even though he’d promised it before and not meant it, I took him at his word and my tail swayed from side to side. This cheered him up and he sat down in the porch and put his arm round me. ‘My beloved boy, my champion, who always thinks the best of everything. This house is not as grand as usual, but we’ll find peace in this valley, shall we not?’
Tomorrow Page 12