by Louis Bayard
“Not at all, Doctor. Please take your time.”
As soon as the door had closed after him, I took three long strides back down the hallway and ducked into Artemus’ room. Lifting the lantern from the wall and working at top speed, I surveyed the bed frame, then felt under the mattress and behind the headboard. I trained my light on the childhood totems that lay strewn, with bizarre carelessness, round the floor: a pair of cast-off sled runners, a waxen man with clove eyes, the remnants of a box kite and an old hand-cranked miniature carousel.
Not here. I knew that, somehow. Not here. And then the lantern light, matching the arc of my thought, swerved toward the closet in the room’s far corner.
Closets. What better place for secrets?
The door opened into a darkness so deep my light could scarcely make a hole in it. Smells of bergamot and frangipani came at me, and twining through everything else, the sweet-sharp scent of mothballs. The rustle of satin and organdy and taffeta, stiff with cold.
Artemus’ closet was now the holding pen for a woman’s excess wardrobe. A perfectly practical thing to do with a young man’s abandoned closet, but under the conditions, I couldn’t help seeing it as another of Artemus’ gibes. (And wouldn’t he have tracked the pattern of my tread on the overhead ceiling? Wouldn’t he know precisely where I was standing?) Stung, I drove my arm straight through and found, to my surprise, no back wall, nothing to bar my way. Only more darkness.
With my lantern in hand, I squeezed through the massed garments and found myself standing suddenly free of encumbrance, in a hot black lozenge of air. No smells here, no outlines. But something more than emptiness. I had only to take a step forward and feel the soft blow against my forehead to know what was there: a bare clothes rod.
Even this was not quite bare. My hands, ranging along its length, came to rest on a wooden hanger . . . then moved down to find the ribbed cinch of a collar . . . the rough track of a shoulder . . . and beneath that an expanse of dampish wool, descending in bounded segments.
I laid my hands round the garment, dragged it to the floor and raised the lantern to it.
It was a uniform. An officer’s uniform.
The real thing, or a very good facsimile. The blue pantaloons with their gold piping. The flourishes of gold on the blue coatee. And there, on the shoulder (I had to bring the lantern closer to make it out), a faint rectangle of shorn thread. Where a bar had once been sewn on.
My mind flashed to—what else?—the mysterious officer who had ordered Private Cochrane to abandon Leroy Fry’s body. And at the same instant, my hand, passing along the coatee, came to rest on a small raised patch just above the waist: some sort of substance, faintly sticky, faintly raspy. I ran my finger through it, but just as I was raising the finger to the lantern light, I heard a footfall.
Someone had come into the room.
I blew out my lantern. Sat there in the steaming darkness of Artemus’ closet, listening to the unseen presence on the other side take another step . . . another . . .
And then stop.
Nothing for it now, I could only wait. For what came next.
And what came was, at first, just one more sound—rending the wall of clothes that lay before me. And by the time this sound had resolved itself into a thing, it had already glanced off my ribs and driven through my frock coat and pinned me to the back wall.
Ah, yes. The uniform’s missing accessory: a saber.
In those initial moments, it was easier to feel the thing than to see it. The shaft of beveled steel, of such a ridiculous sharpness that the air seemed to part before it.
Struggle though I might, it held me fast in my frock coat. I drew my arm from the sleeve and began to wriggle free. Just then the blade loosed its grip . . . only to come surging forward once again, even faster. As I lunged clear, I could see the blade striking the very section of the wall where my heart had lately been, pinning my empty coat in a death blow.
I might have cried out, yes. But I knew no sound would ever escape this dark little cupboard. And I might, yes, have flung myself at my attacker. But that barricade of dresses had left him nothing more than a possibility. One wrong guess, and I’d be even more thoroughly at his mercy than I already was. But this was equally true: he couldn’t fling himself at me without losing his advantage.
The rules, then, had been set down. Our little game could begin.
Back drew the blade . . . forward it charged . . . whing! came the answering cry of the wall as the saber caught the section of plaster by my right hip. A second later it was springing back, probing the darkness once again, hungry for flesh.
And me? I kept moving, Reader. Up and down, side to side, a new target for each new thrust. Trying in my own bleak way to read the mind that lay behind this blade.
The fifth thrust just missed my wrist. The seventh passed like a breeze through the hairs along my neck. The tenth found the crook between my right shoulder and my rib cage.
Faster and faster it came—maddened by all its missed chances. No longer did it crave an outright kill; the crippling thrust was its new object. Inch by inch it descended, from the region of my heart to the region of my legs. And my legs, in reply, leapt into Highland reels, dancing for their very life.
It was a dance that would soon have to end, I knew that much. Even if my lungs could keep pumping air, there wasn’t enough oxygen left in this tiny space to draw from. It was exhaustion, then—not strategy, not any hope of reprieve, just bone-tiredness—that dropped me to the floor.
And there I lay, on my back, watching that length of steel make a silhouette of me against the plaster. The closer it came, the colder I grew through my sweat. For it seemed to me I was being fitted—measured—for my own coffin.
My eyes slammed shut as, one last time, the blade came roaring back. One last time the wall sang its protest. And then . . . silence.
Prying open my lids, I found the blade poised exactly one inch above my left eye. Not still, no . . . twisting and writhing with a pure rage . . . but not withdrawing, either.
I knew then what had happened. The force of the thrust had been so great that the blade had been wedged into the masonry.
It was my last, my only, chance. Sliding out from beneath the saber, I seized one of the dresses from the clothes rod, threw it round the blade, and began to pull. Plying my strength, such as it was, against the strength on the other end.
For a while, we were equal. But my assailant had a tight grip on the saber’s handle, with all the leverage that supplied. And I? I had only my bare hands, pulling as hard as they could. For several long seconds, we struggled there in the darkness—unseen to each other but no less present.
The blade had now pulled free of the wall. No longer a prisoner, it was once again an instrument of blind will, sliding away from me. The strength was ebbing from my fingers, my wrists, my arms, and the only thing that kept me gripping was this thought, chiming over and over in my brain: If I let go now, it will be the end of me.
And so I held on, though my hands were sizzling with pain, though my heart was melting into my lungs. I held on.
And in the very moment I had given it all up for lost, the force on the other end of the saber gave way, and the blade went limp. Sank into my bruised hands like an offering from the sky.
I stared at it in dazzlement, waiting for it to spring to life again. It didn’t. And still I remained there for another whole minute, unwilling— unable—to let it go.
Narrative of Gus Landor
26
Stuffing the uniform under my arm and dragging my frock coat and lantern after me, I pushed through the wall of clothes and stood once more in the chill half-light of Artemus’ bedroom, searching myself for signs of violence—and finding none. Not a scratch, not a drop of blood. The only sounds were my own panting and the soft drip of my sweat on the floor.
“Mr. Landor.”
It was by his voice I knew him. But standing there in the doorway’s shadows, without a candle, he might have be
en his son’s double. I hesitated for just a moment, wondering whether to trust the evidence of my eyes or my ears.
“Very sorry, Doctor,” I said. “I’m afraid I tore my coat”—sheepishly, I pointed to the garment that lay in deltas of light on the floor—“and I thought I might borrow one of your son’s.”
“But your coat is . . .”
“Yes, I did quite a job on it, didn’t I? All the same,” I added, laughing and brandishing the uniform, “I don’t think I could in good conscience impersonate an officer. Having never served in harm’s way myself.”
Mouth ajar, he came toward me, staring at the garment in my hands.
“Why,” he said, “that must be my brother’s!”
“Your brother?”
“Joshua was his name. Died shortly before the Battle of Maguaga. Influenza, poor puppy. The uniform’s all we have to remember him by.” Kneeling down, he gave the fabric a few long strokes, then rubbed his fingers together under his nose. “Funny,” he said. “The blue’s faded, and the shoulder straps, well, they’re a mite old-fashioned, but otherwise, eh? Could almost pass for new.”
“My very thought,” I said. “Oh, but see? The bar has gone missing.”
“Why, there never was a bar,” he said, frowning. “Joshua never made it higher than second lieutenant.”
The frown now curled upward. A soft rush of air issued from his nose.
“Something amusing, Doctor?”
“Oh, I was—I was remembering how Artemus used to wear this around the house.”
“Did he, now?”
“When he was the barest tadpole. I wish you could have seen it, Mr. Landor. His arms gave out a foot or two before the sleeves did, and the trousers! Why, they’d just drag after him in a—in a most comical fashion.” He gave me a sidelong grimace. “Yes, I know, I should have begged him to show more respect for his country’s uniform, but I couldn’t see the harm in it. He’d never met Joshua, you see, and he’d always had such a profound respect for his uncle’s service.”
“Your service, too,” I put in. “How could he fail to respect that?”
“Oh. Yes. Well, perhaps. He’s never—he’s never much taken after me. All the better for him, eh?”
“You are too humble, sir. Do you mean to tell me that after all these years of seeing you practice your art, he hasn’t absorbed some small amount himself ?”
Those ruined lips of his twisted to one side. “I suppose he has, that’s true. Why, he could name all the bones and organs from the time he was ten! Knew how to use a stethoscope. Once or twice he helped me set a broken bone. But I don’t think he ever cared much for the—”
“What on earth?”
No uncertainty this time about who was standing in the doorway. Mrs. Marquis’ face was thrown into a sharp relief by the taper she held in her hands, and this light played up all the bird-bones of her face and turned her eyes into great abysses.
“Ah, my dear!” said Dr. Marquis. “Recovered so soon?”
“Yes, it appears I was in grievous error. I had feared I was in for one of those horrid migraines, but it seems a moment’s rest was all I required, and I find myself quite cured. Now, Daniel, I see you are on the verge of boring Mr. Landor with one of your journal articles. You must return it to where you found it, and Mr. Landor, you must put away that dreadful old military coat, I am quite sure it won’t fit you, and would you both kindly escort me back downstairs before the others begin to wonder where we’ve gone? Oh, and Daniel, please douse the fire in the parlor, Mr. Landor is perspiring from all the heat!”
We were a few paces outside the parlor door when we heard the pianoforte, kindled into life, and the sound of stomping feet and a single high suppressed giggle. Humor! How had that broken loose? But the evidence was there for all to see. Lea was playing a quadrille on the pianoforte, and under its influence, Poe and Artemus were marching across the parlor floor and swaying as they went. And laughing—laughing like angels.
“Oh, Lea, let me play!” screamed Mrs. Marquis.
Lea needed no more injunction than that. Quit her place at the piano and hied herself straight to the back of the column, wrapped her hands round Artemus’ waist, and set to swaying. Mrs. Marquis, proudly perched on the piano bench, pounded out a dance tune recently imported from Vienna, playing it double-time with an almost frightening virtuosity.
And there I sat smiling, coatless and damp, asking myself, Which of the people in this room just tried to kill me?
Faster came the notes, louder came the feet, and the laughter was now general—even Dr. Marquis allowed himself to chuckle and wipe his eye— and all the sour undertones of half an hour ago had, in this moment, been banished, and I could almost have believed I’d dreamed the whole business in the closet.
And then Mrs. Marquis, as quickly as she had taken up her task, abandoned it. Slammed her hands down on the keyboard and sent a knife of discord through the room, stopping everyone in place.
“You must forgive me,” she said, rising and smoothing her skirt. “What sort of hostess am I? I am quite sure that Mr. Landor wants no more of me on the piano and would much rather listen to Lea.” How she drew that name out! Stretched it as far as it could go. “Leee-aaa? Would you do us all the favor of a song?”
A song was the last thing on earth Lea wished to undertake, but no matter how she begged off, Mrs. Marquis would have none of it. She wrapped both hands round her daughter’s wrist and gave a series of ungentle tugs.
“We must beg, is that it? Very well, everyone, down on your knees. We must all implore, it seems.”
“Mother.”
“Perhaps if we did a salaam or two. . . .”
“There is no need,” said Lea, staring at her shoes. “I should be only too glad.”
At which Mrs. Marquis broke into a silvery peal of laughter. “Well, isn’t that fine! Now, I must warn you all, I have always found my daughter’s taste in music rather dowdy and mournful. I have thus taken the liberty of suggesting a selection from the Lady’s Book.”
“I’m not sure Mr. Poe would—”
“Oh, I’m sure he would. Wouldn’t you, Mr. Poe?”
“Whatever Miss Marquis would see fit to grace us with,” said Poe, half trembling, “would be a benediction to the—”
“Just as I thought!” cried the mother, lashing him away with her hand. “You will not put us off another moment, Lea.” With a low undertone, audible to everyone within twenty feet, she added, “You know Mr. Landor won’t care for it.”
Lea looked at me then. Ah, yes, with the most undivided attention she had given me all evening. Then she set the music on the stand. Lowered herself onto her bench. One last glance, she gave her mother—impossible to read—not pleading, not resistance; curiosity, maybe. She was wondering what would happen.
Then she cleared her throat and began to play. And sing.
A Soldier’s the lad for my notion,
A Soldier’s the lad for my notion.
We girls must allow that his row de dow dow
Sets the hearts of his hearers in motion. . . .
Strange that Mrs. Marquis should have found it in the Lady’s Book. It was the sort of song you might have heard many years ago at the Olympic Theatre, on a bill with burnt-cork comedians and French ballerinas. It would have been performed by a girl named Magdalena or Delilah, and she would have worn blue-beaded ostrich feathers or, more daringly, a sailor’s suit, and her cheeks would have been as red as her lips, and her knees redder still, and her kohl-smeared eyes would have been screwed into an uglifying wink.
Delilah would at least have taken to her task with some zeal. But then I’d guess even galley slaves would’ve shown more enthusiasm than did Lea Marquis that December evening, sitting bolt upright on her bench, her arms rigid as muskets. Once, just once, her hands lifted off the keyboard, as though she would stop. But then she (or someone) thought better of it, and down came the hands, and up climbed the voice.
With his row, With his dow, With his
row de dow . . .
She was, as Poe had reported, a natural contralto, singing in a too-high key, and her voice, as it neared the top of the clef, began to cloud over, until it was just a burst of steam through clenched lips, scarcely to be heard but weirdly resilient all the same. Nothing would quite still it.
Dow de dow,
Dow de dow, dow . . .
I suppose, in that moment, I thought of Pawpaw’s birds, calling through their iron bars. What would I not have given—what would all of us not have given, I think—for the key to this particular cage. But the song rolled onward (easier to call the tide back than stop it), and as it went on, the bottom fell out of Lea’s voice, and her hands took on a strange new energy, began to flog the keys, and with each flog, some note went spinning off its rhythm—landed in another measure entirely—and the piano itself, stunned by the pounding, seemed ready to rise up in protest, and still Lea sang on: